Daughter of Satan (23 page)

He smiled. ‘Oh, it was a wonderful night, was it not? Better than the first . . . when perhaps you might have been a little reluctant.'

‘You are coarse and crude and I hate you.'

‘Constant repetition is not so emphatic as you appear to believe.'

‘With me it is.'

‘Marry me, Tamar. I promise to be as faithful as I can.'

‘Marry you! I would rather die.'

‘What if there should be a child? Then you would be ready enough, I'll swear.'

‘If there were a child it would make no difference.'

‘We will wait and see. When that sly-faced housekeeper starts peeking and prying, I'm ready to wager you'll not be so reluctant.'

‘You forget that I hate you.'

He sighed. ‘So you have said. When, Tamar, will you be truthful, frank and reasonable? When may I cease thinking up these elaborate schemes so that we can be together?'

‘There will never be another time.'

‘I hope there will be a child,' he said. ‘My God, how I hope for that! There will be time to know before the ships sail. If there is a child, I know you will change your mind. You will be obliged to. It will be a good excuse for you; and how you love excuses! For the child's sake, you will agree to marry me, just as you so charmingly agree to make love with me, first for Richard's sake, then for that of Humility Brown!'

‘Marriage with you!' she sneered. ‘I laugh to contemplate it, though mayhap I should not laugh, for what a bitter tragedy it would be! I should do you some mischief before I had lived a week with you.'

‘Never fear! I would subdue you. I would have you meek and loving . . . a perfect wife before the week were out.'

She felt bruised and wounded, humiliated beyond endurance. He did excite her; she knew the truth now, which was that she half hated, half delighted in his love-making; and that was a shameful conclusion for her to come to.

She was all contrasts during the weeks that followed. She was terrified that there would be a child and yet, at times, she longed that this might be. She pictured herself saying to him: ‘For the child's sake, then . . .' And she thought of all the attendant excitement which would follow such a decision.

But then her pride arose – that she, whom people had been afraid to cross, even when she was a child, should be so treated, so humiliated, as though she were any low serving girl to be taken at the master's caprice!

No! Fiercely she hated him and what he had done to her; and now again she was terrified that there would be a child.

There was no child.

She mocked him when he came to the house.

‘When do you sail?'

‘Perhaps,' he said, ‘the next time I sail will be with you up the Thames to London Town.'

She laughed exultantly. ‘I think,' she said, ‘that when the ships sail out you will be with them.'

‘Oddly enough,' he answered, ‘I would rather marry you. I have had my fill of the sea; you, I have just tasted.'

‘I hate your coarse words, and I should never have consented to marry you even if there had been a child. But there will be no child.'

She laughed loud and long to see his dismay. He understood at last that she had meant what she said when she had told him she hated him.

He sailed away that summer, and she told herself that she was glad.

But when – only a few weeks after he had been at sea – a ship came limping into the Sound with the news that it was the only one which had escaped after an attack by Algerian or Turkish pirates, she was on the quay with the rest of the town; and her pride suddenly broke when she heard that Bartle was one of those who had not returned.

IT WAS TAMAR'S
wedding night.

She was twenty-three years old – old enough to be married – and she thought of the last three years as dull and uneventful.

She had been twenty years old when she had heard that Bartle was lost. The men from that ship which had limped back to Plymouth explained that they had been outnumbered three to one in the Bay of Biscay, and aboard the attacking forces were fierce pirates – Turks or Algerians. Bartle's ship had been fired and all loot taken before it was sunk. It was a fate he had risked many times and now it had overtaken him.

She was numb and listless during those days which had followed. She could not analyse her feelings for Bartle. Her hatred had been fierce because he had so deeply humiliated her. Twice he had tricked her; twice he had cheated her; and he had mocked her mercilessly. He was every bit as cruel as the men who had killed him, and yet . . . how could she understand this feeling which was now hers? Why was it that she hated the bright and shining water which had taken him? Why was it that all the excitement had gone from her life? Was it because there was no one in it who seemed worthy of her hatred?

Whenever a ship came in, she was one of the first to take her stand on Barbican Causeway. She would shade her eyes and watch it as it came towards the land. Surely he must have escaped! He was too young to die. And it was impossible to imagine him dead. She would never be able to do that.

She was restless, yet subdued. There were times when she seemed not to hear, if people spoke to her. Richard was
anxious about her, suspecting that she regretted not having married Bartle.

She would not let herself believe that she yearned for that tempestuous existence which marriage with him would have been. How ironical that by marrying him she could have saved him from taking that fatal journey. That first shameful occasion, so she had believed at the time, had saved Richard's life; the second, Humility's; and now, there could be no doubt that, had she given herself to Bartle for ever, she would have saved his.

Often she was at the Tylers' cottage. Annis had another boy now, and at Humility's suggestion they had christened him Restraint. In the old days Tamar would have laughed at that, for the healthy boy, pulling greedily at his mother's breasts, seemed to her most incongruously named. But she had, she realized, little laughter left in her.

Annis in her cottage home, with John a devout Puritan and most faithful husband, was a contented woman. It was irritating to contemplate such contentment, and to envy Annis her home and children just as she envied Richard his calm outlook on life, Humility his faith. This was a strange state for a girl to be in, particularly when a little while ago her life had seemed to be all excitement and pleasure.

Shortly after that day when Bartle had sailed away, Richard put into action a plan which had long been in his mind. He had always taken a keen interest in Humility Brown and had not cared to see him doing rough work under Jubin; he had, therefore, decided that it would be a good plan if Humility – who was a good penman and general scholar – took some of the burden of his estates off his shoulders. Humility was naturally delighted with the change of occupation; and Richard pointed out that he must leave the draughty outhouse for which he had been so grateful when he had first been given work, and one of the attics should be made ready for him. This would not only be more comfortable, but more in keeping with his new status.

It was now that a change seemed to come over Humility. He glowed with something more than his faith. He had some of his meals with Richard and Tamar, and it was one day
when they were at supper in the winter parlour that he explained his newly found elation.

‘I am a happy man,' he declared, his eyes shining with gratitude as they rested on Richard. ‘I had thought my desires were sinful, but now I know them to be favoured by the Lord. When my friends sailed away to Virginia and left me behind with Will Spears and Spears' boy, I was filled with regret and, in spite of constant prayers, I could not purge my mind of sorrow because I had missed an opportunity of reaching the new land. “Humility Brown,” I said to myself, “if it had been God's will that you should have gone, to Virginia, do you think He would have sent you into plague-stricken Plymouth?” I knew that it was God's will that I should not go to Virginia then. And I prayed nightly that I might be resigned to my fate. But I hankered. I yearned. I thought of my friends, leading the new life in the new country where they did not find it necessary to creep away and in secret worship God. Oh, to be free and unafraid and to lift up mine eyes to the hills and say “Holy, Holy, Holy . . .”'

Tamar watched him critically. A born preacher, he was ever carried away by words, and that was a vanity in him surely. He loved the sound of his own voice as dearly as she loved the sight of her face. She would taunt him with that one day when she felt in the mood to do so.

Humility caught the look in her eyes and said: ‘Forgive me. I grow excited, I fear. I
am
excited. My mind is filled with what I believe to be a message from on High. I have a notion that it may well, after all, be God's will that I go to Virginia. Sir, you have made it possible for me to feed and clothe myself and, by your generous payment, to save money which will enable me to go to the promised land.'

‘So,' said Richard, ‘that is what you plan. To save, and when you are ready and the opportunity comes, to sail away.'

Humility's eyes gleamed. ‘Ships often come to Plymouth. It is possible to get to Virginia if you have a little money. I rejoice. I see that the Lord did not intend me to miss the promised land.'

‘Perhaps,' said Tamar with a sparkle of her old mischief, ‘you have been delayed as a punishment, but it may be that,
like Moses of old, your sins have been such that it is considered just that you never reach your promised land.'

‘That may well be,' agreed Humility.

‘Then you must have sinned greatly – and I wonder how.'

That evening she threw off some of her listlessness. She was interested in something once more: Humility's going to Virginia!

She would interrupt him at his work as he sat, quill in hand, and make him talk about Virginia. He was easily tempted to such talk, and it amused her afterwards to see his remorse for the wasted time.

‘To steal time,' she teased remorselessly, ‘is as bad as stealing goods. You know that, Humility?'

‘You are a temptress!' he said.

And she laughed. Then he whispered a prayer.

‘Shall you wear a hair shirt for this?' she asked; and she was pleased because she could feel amused, teasing Humility Brown.

But when he did not appear at meals next day and she understood he was fasting, she felt sorry for what she had done. Then she discovered that as well as amusement she could feel regret; and it seemed significant that Humility Brown should be the one to make her feel that life was not so dreary after all.

Sometimes they would have serious conversations together. He seemed more human now that he had a goal to work for, and she took an interest in his mounting savings. She would have liked to have given him money, but she knew he would not accept that. He worked assiduously. There never was such a worker, Richard declared, never such a man for denying himself comfort.

‘If he were not such a fanatic he would be a great man, I think,' said Tamar.

‘Great men are often fanatics,' Richard reminded her.

Annis and John were saving too. Their simple faith shone in their faces. They were going one day, under the guidance of Humility Brown and accompanied by most of those who joined with them to worship God in secret meeting places, to the new promised land.

‘So,' Tamar had demanded angrily, ‘you would leave me, would you, Annis?'

But Annis shook her head. ‘Mistress, perhaps you will be among those who go with us.'

‘I? Why . . . the Puritans would not have me.'

‘They would, mistress, if you were a Puritan.'

‘You talk like Humility Brown!' snapped Tamar.

‘Ah, mistress, if you could but know the peace and joy that has come to me and John! We be saved. Think of it. Happiness has come to us, mistress. I pray on my knees every night that it will come to you.'

Tamar left the cottage that day and rode on the moors. The wind caught her long hair as she rode. Here was the spot where Bartle had caught up with her; here he had seized her bridle and laughed up into her face. Now . . . she was alone on the moors and he was alone on the bed of the sea.

She dismounted and tied her horse to a bush. Then she threw herself on to the grass and sobbed brokenheartedly. She thought of Annis and John Tyler, and mostly she thought of Humility Brown. What was it these people had that she had not? Faith! Belief that their souls were saved. Belief in a future life so that what happened here on Earth was of no moment. What an enviable state to be in!

When she was back at the house, she pinned up her hair – not in an elaborate style, but looped over her ears and made into a knot at the nape of her neck. The effect was startling, for she looked almost demure. She was aware of the look of approval which crossed the face of Humility Brown when he saw her.

Annis too was pleased to see her thus. They sat by the chimney-piece in the cottage, and the children – Christian, Restraint and Prudence – played at their feet.

‘Annis,' said Tamar, ‘can you truly say that you have never been so happy in your life?'

‘I truly can,' said Annis.

‘But why should a
new
way of worshipping God make you happy?'

‘Because 'tis the only true right way,' answered Annis.

‘Are you right . . . I wonder?'

Annis knelt at Tamar's feet. ‘Mistress, come to us. Come to our meetings. Listen to the good words and then see if you cannot find the peace which has come to John and me.'

‘Annis, you must know that when you are in your meeting place you may be discovered at any time. That may mean prison. John may be taken from you and the children. How can you be happy living in perpetual fear?'

‘If John were taken we should know it was the will of the Lord. Good would come of it, for the ways of God are good.'