An Outcast of the Islands | Page 8

of the gravel stopped. "Horrid man," said Mrs. Vinck, calmly. "I have
heard he beats his wife." "Oh no, my dear, no," muttered absently Mr. Vinck, with a
vague gesture. The aspect of Willems as a wife-beater presented to him no interest. How
women do misjudge! If Willems wanted to torture his wife he would have recourse to
less primitive methods. Mr. Vinck knew Willems well, and believed him to be very able,
very smart--objectionably so. As he took the last quick draws at the stump of his cheroot,
Mr. Vinck reflected that the confidence accorded by Hudig to Willems was open, under
the circumstances, to loyal criticism from Hudig's cashier. "He is becoming dangerous;
he knows too much. He will have to be got rid of," said Mr. Vinck aloud. But Mrs. Vinck
had gone in already, and after shaking his head he threw away his cheroot and followed
her slowly. Willems walked on homeward weaving the splendid web of his future. The
road to greatness lay plainly before his eyes, straight and shining, without any obstacle
that he could see. He had stepped off the path of honesty, as he understood it, but he
would soon regain it, never to leave it any more! It was a very small matter. He would
soon put it right again. Meantime his duty was not to be found out, and he trusted in his
skill, in his luck, in his well-established reputation that would disarm suspicion if
anybody dared to suspect. But nobody would dare! True, he was conscious of a slight
deterioration. He had appropriated temporarily some of Hudig's money. A deplorable
necessity. But he judged himself with the indulgence that should be extended to the
weaknesses of genius. He would make reparation and all would be as before; nobody
would be the loser for it, and he would go on unchecked toward the brilliant goal of his
ambition. Hudig's partner! Before going up the steps of his house he stood for awhile, his
feet well apart, chin in hand, contemplating mentally Hudig's future partner. A glorious
occupation. He saw him quite safe; solid as the hills; deep--deep as an abyss; discreet as
the grave.

CHAPTER TWO
The sea, perhaps because of its saltness, roughens the outside but keeps sweet the kernel
of its servants' soul. The old sea; the sea of many years ago, whose servants were devoted
slaves and went from youth to age or to a sudden grave without needing to open the book
of life, because they could look at eternity reflected on the element that gave the life and
dealt the death. Like a beautiful and unscrupulous woman, the sea of the past was
glorious in its smiles, irresistible in its anger, capricious, enticing, illogical, irresponsible;
a thing to love, a thing to fear. It cast a spell, it gave joy, it lulled gently into boundless
faith; then with quick and causeless anger it killed. But its cruelty was redeemed by the
charm of its inscrutable mystery, by the immensity of its promise, by the supreme
witchery of its possible favour. Strong men with childlike hearts were faithful to it, were
content to live by its grace--to die by its will. That was the sea before the time when the
French mind set the Egyptian muscle in motion and produced a dismal but profitable
ditch. Then a great pall of smoke sent out by countless steam-boats was spread over the
restless mirror of the Infinite. The hand of the engineer tore down the veil of the terrible
beauty in order that greedy and faithless landlubbers might pocket dividends. The
mystery was destroyed. Like all mysteries, it lived only in the hearts of its worshippers.
The hearts changed; the men changed. The once loving and devoted servants went out
armed with fire and iron, and conquering the fear of their own hearts became a
calculating crowd of cold and exacting masters. The sea of the past was an incomparably
beautiful mistress, with inscrutable face, with cruel and promising eyes. The sea of to-day
is a used-up drudge, wrinkled and defaced by the churned-up wakes of brutal propellers,
robbed of the enslaving charm of its vastness, stripped of its beauty, of its mystery and of
its promise. Tom Lingard was a master, a lover, a servant of the sea. The sea took him
young, fashioned him body and soul; gave him his fierce aspect, his loud voice, his
fearless eyes, his stupidly guileless heart. Generously it gave him his absurd faith in
himself, his universal love of creation, his wide indulgence, his contemptuous severity,
his straightforward simplicity of motive and honesty of aim. Having made him what he
was, womanlike, the sea served him humbly and let him bask unharmed in the sunshine
of its terribly uncertain favour.