Daughter of Satan (37 page)

He took her hands. ‘This is a joy, to have you visit me.' Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

She held him off. ‘I . . . I have just come from the Elder . . .' she said breathlessly.

‘I do not think that Elder has pleased you greatly.'

‘Pleased me! I am infuriated!'

‘That delights me. It is so long since I have seen you in a rage . . . much too long.'

‘I am sinful! I am a descendant of Eve, who is responsible for all the sin in the world. I have been handicapped by the burden of my beauty. And now . . .
now
. . . it pleases Brother Milroy . . .
dear
Brother Milroy . . . to guide me into the paths of righteousness! He will look after my children and give me more. In short, he is prepared to marry me . . . for the sake of my soul, I am told, and so that I can supply more children for the colony!'

‘Ha! Yet another Humility Brown! And what said you to this dazzling proposal?'

‘I said I would choose my own husband.'

‘That was well spoken. And you told them, I believe, that you had chosen already.'

‘I did not.'

‘That,' he said, ‘was remiss of you.' He drew her to him once more and this time kissed her tenderly. ‘No matter, we will tell them together.'

‘I do not mean . . .' she began.

‘But I do. The time has come, and you can no longer delay. They are right when they say such as you should not remain
unmarried. Plague on them! They would marry you off to their Elders! And in your mood of these last weeks you'd have had another Humility Brown if I had not been here to stop you. Listen, sweetheart. You don't belong here. We don't belong here. We'll marry and sail away. Would we could go tonight! But that's impossible. We'll not tempt death when life looks good. But as soon as these gales cease . . . as soon as the sun begins to smile again . . .'

‘Brother Milroy!' she cried. ‘That man! You can imagine how he would look after my children. Poor Dick! Poor Rowan! Poor little Lorea!'

‘Think how delighted
they
will be when they know about us! It is their dearest wish that I should be their father.'

‘You have put a spell upon them.'

‘As I have on you . . . and as you have on me, Tamar.'

‘Was it magic you learned in foreign places?'

‘I know not. I only know that I love them and they love me; and that I love their mother . . . as she loves me.'

‘If I married you . . . would you . . . could you give up all thought of returning to England? I mean, would you stay here? Of course you will sail back to get stores . . . and mayhap to adventure up the coast. That you should do, and I would go with you. What I mean is: Could you make this place your
home
?'

‘Is that what you want?'

‘I feel this place has something to show me. I think of Humility. Oh, do not be impatient. You say I did not kill him, but I know I sent him to his death. That hangs heavily on my conscience, and I should never be happy if I did not do what I feel I must do. And now I know that I want to stay here and try to lead a better life than I have so far lived.'

He took her face in his hands and his blue eyes gleamed with great tenderness.

‘Once I said I would go to hell for you. Well, if I would do that, surely I could endure a Puritan settlement.'

‘I will marry you, Bartle.'

He held her tightly against him and his laugh was one of great joy and triumph.

‘We'll get married,' he said, ‘and we'll build a little house.
We'll start it tomorrow. We'll live in a little Puritan house among Puritans . . . for as long as you want to . . . but I know that won't be for the rest of our lives. And one day you'll say, “Let us sail away. There are other places in the world.” I would not take you back to England to live, though, for Richard is right. But mayhap we might sail into the Sound one day . . . just to see Devon again . . . that greenest of green grass, the coombs and hills, that rich red soil . . . But we should not stay, for I should be afraid of their witch-prickers and what they would do to you, since, if aught happened to you, what would be my life? What has it been without you ever since I met you?'

She tried to stem the great excitement which was creeping over her.

‘So you want me, Bartle, not because it is good for a woman, a descendant of Eve, to have a husband to guide her not so that you can give children to the colony. You want
me
. . . because I am myself . . . because you cannot be happy without me? That seems a good reason.'

When he rowed her back to the shore they talked about the cottage they would build.

‘It will be like a cottage on your estate at home,' she reminded him.

‘It'll be as no other place on Earth!' he answered.

Richard was delighted with the news. As for the two elder children, they were so enchanted that they must dance about the room; and Lorea could not keep still, so excited was she at the prospect of owning such a father.

It was unfortunate that the Elder, misunderstanding Tamar's meaning, should have sent James Milroy along to make an offer for her hand, and that he should have arrived just as Bartle and Tamar were making their announcement.

Tamar smiled pertly at the man, disliking him through no great fault of his own but because he reminded her of Humility.

Bartle's eyes, as they fell on the man, were full of malice.

‘Here comes Master Milroy to have a word with you, Richard,' he said.

‘Pray, sit down,' said Richard. ‘You must drink with us.'

‘I wish to speak to you in private,' said James.

‘Can it be,' said Tamar, ‘that you have come to ask my father for my hand in marriage?'

The Puritan flushed.

‘Ah! I see that is so. I have been told of your desire to guide me, to save my soul and to make my body fruitful. You are too late with your offer, sir. I have decided to marry Sir Bartle Cavill.'

There was silence in the little room. Richard looked with dismay from the newly affianced couple to the Puritan. The latter, poor man, was very shocked, and the colour stayed in his face. Bartle and Tamar looked completely mischievous. Ah! thought Richard. This then is the end of another phase in Tamar's life. She is no longer going to be a Puritan; she is now going to be herself.

Dick was so excited by the great news that he forgot the presence of the Puritan. ‘Sir Bartle, I shall call you Father from now on. I shan't wait.'

‘I shall call you Father too!' declared Rowan.

‘Lorea too!' said Lorea.

And the children seized Bartle's hands, and danced round him as though he were a pole and they Maytime revellers.

James Milroy looked on the scene with horror.

He rose and said calmly: ‘I beg your pardon. I have made a mistake.'

And as the door shut behind him, Bartle swept Tamar into his arms and kissed her hungrily, while the children applauded.

But Richard looked on uneasily.

Their house was made ready for them. They had declared their desire to be married before the magistrate, and the simple Puritan ceremony was over.

Tamar no longer thought of being a Puritan; she only thought of being happy. This, she realized, was what she had been wanting all through the years. It did not matter now that it had come late; it was never too late. She had almost forgotten that a man named Humility Brown had ever existed.

They lay in their small room in their tiny cottage, and both of them thought of another room, with a curtained bed and a
wide open window. But never had they known such happiness as this.

In the bitterly cold first weeks of their marriage they were snug in their little house. There was no need to think beyond the winter. They were happy now. In the spring the
Liberty
would return to England and Bartle would take Tamar with him, for they had agreed that never again would they be parted for long.

There were times when Bartle went off on a hunting expedition into the forest. Once he was away two days and a night. Those were the longest hours she had known since her marriage. But home he came safely, with meat for the settlement.

It was pleasant for Tamar to slip into Annis' cottage and sit by her fireside and see her contentment, enjoying contentment herself.

‘Ah!' said Annis. ‘You be happy now. At last you be happy . . . happy as you never were before. Sir Bartle, he be the man for you; and 'tis right and proper that you should be Lady Cavill. I always knew he were the man for you, wild though he be, for you be wild too, mistress my lady.'

‘No,' she said, ‘I
was
wild, Annis. I have changed. I want quiet happiness and peace now and for evermore.'

Annis did not speak, but she knew that peace was not what Tamar would find with Sir Bartle. He wasn't the one for peace. Humility Brown was the one for that.

‘Don't mention
his
name to me!' cried Tamar.

Annis trembled. She was always frightened by Tamar's way of reading her thoughts.

‘He were a good man,' said Annis, ‘and happy he'll be at this moment, I'll be ready to swear, to look out through the golden gates and see you happy.'

‘I said don't speak of him!' cried Tamar; and she got up and went home.

Then for a while it seemed that Humility Brown was in the cottage. She was happy, yes. But she had bought this happiness with the death of Humility Brown. He would always be there, she believed, to mock her at odd moments, ready to spoil her pleasure in the new life.

It was not a good life, she feared. It was gay and full of laughter; full of passion and quarrels too. Bartle was quickly jealous. He even accused her of smiling in too friendly a fashion at James Milroy, which infuriated her while it sent her into mocking laughter, so that he in his turn was infuriated. But such scenes ended in passionate embraces. She herself was jealous at times, accusing him of infidelities, remembering the reputation he had had in England and reminding him of it.

So after those first weeks of blissful contentment there came those sudden gusts of anger and passion; they were two violent natures let loose and enjoying their anger when they both knew that it would end in passionate reunion.

Not a tranquil life – a wild and exciting life, even here in a Puritan settlement, just as she had always known it would be with Bartle. Yet how had she ever lived without it?

Only when there was trouble with the Indians and Bartle went off with some ten men under Captain Standish with muskets and cutlasses – only then did she know the depth of her love for him, only then did she realize that she would rather die than lose him again as she had once before.

John Tyler was one of the men who went with Captain Standish, and that brought Annis even closer. During those eight days they were together constantly, exchanging confidences, telling each other of their love and the life they led with these men, while the children played noisily outside and only little Lorea sat on a stool listening to them.

Back came the men, victorious – only one of them, who had caught an arrow in his back, the worse for the expedition.

She clung to Bartle, and there were many days and nights when they were gentle with one another, all violence forgotten.

Then she fancied that Bartle was becoming resigned to this life of hunting and protecting the settlement from the native redskins. Why should he not? It was a man's life.

She was happy at the thought of their living in the little cottage until they went to their graves – she with her children about her, tending her garden, cooking maize cakes, perhaps learning to spin with the expert touch most women acquired.

She should have known such a life could not be for her, nor for Bartle. They were not of these people, and they were tolerated only because they were known to be birds of passage. Bartle had never pretended to be one of them. He was Captain of the ship which had brought them; he had built a house, it was true, but when he had gone it would still be a house, and houses were desperately needed in New Plymouth.

And then occurred an incident which shocked Tamar as she had not been shocked since the day she had found poor Jane Swann escaping from her tormentors.

It concerned Polly Eagel. Polly's husband was a quiet man, and Polly would never have thought of becoming a Puritan if she had not married him. Polly was flighty, fond of admiration; and James Milroy for one was deeply aware of sin such as Polly brought into the settlement. It was not the original pilgrims, serious-minded, righteous, ready to die for their faith whom he felt needed supervision; they were as stalwart as ever. But newcomers had emigrated for a variety of reasons – for the love of adventure, to make a change because life was hard at home. The Captain and the crew of his ship were evil men. As for Tamar – and he thanked God nightly that he had been saved from the calamity of marrying her – she was a wanton creature. She had lured him on, he knew now, not because she wanted a good man to instruct and guide her, but that she might tempt him to lust. Much wickedness had come into Plymouth with the
Liberty.
It must be stamped out, and James Milroy was going to do his duty and see that this was done.

He had been suspicious of Polly Eagel for some time. She was a pretty, fluffy-haired little woman, for ever fingering her hair and letting it peep out from under her cap as if by accident. He had set a watch upon Polly Eagel and – glory be to God! – he had himself been led by divine guidance to discover her immorality with one of the sailors from the ship.

Now the sailors did not come under Puritan law. Their souls were their own, which meant that they were the Devil's. Eternal damnation was to be their lot in any case. But Polly Eagel was a member of the Puritan Church, and as such must suffer the necessary correction.

Annis came bursting into Tamar's cottage to tell her the news.

Annis was excited. This was like something that might have happened at home.