Daughter of Satan (24 page)

‘You might be summoned for failing to appear at church.'

Annis nodded and smiled blissfully.

‘Annis, sometimes I think you are a fool. Yet you have found happiness and I have not; and since happiness is what we all seek, it must be the wise who find it.'

‘Mistress, cut yourself off from the Devil. You can do it. I know you are a witch, mistress. You have the powers of witchcraft, but you have never used them for ill; you are a white witch, and prayer could release you from your bondage; it could bring you safe to the arms of Jesus.'

Her lips curled. ‘You talk like Humility Brown.'

She could not understand what happened to her during those years – perhaps it was because that which came to her came gradually. She was not wild Tamar one day and Tamar saved the next. Each week saw a little of the old wildness passing, a little of the new quietness gained.

Humility talked with her long and earnestly now that she had ceased to mock him. Who was she to mock? These people had faith, and faith gave them, the contentment which she lacked and longed for. She was restless, searching for something which she could never have now that Bartle was dead; and when Bartle was here she had not wanted it.

She was twenty-three and unmarried. Soon she would be qualifying for the title of ‘ancient maid'. She longed for children. Annis had another now – little Felicity. Four children for Annis and not one for Tamar! She was fond of Annis' children and made excuses to visit them at the cottage or have them at the house.

But Tamar was not the sort to live through another woman's experiences.

She wanted this faith; she wanted to escape from restlessness; she longed to be saved so that what happened here on Earth was of no importance since her eyes would be fixed on the happy life to come.

She told Humility this, and he went down on his knees and thanked God.

Tamar's conversion was more enthusiastic than anyone else's, for she could never be half-hearted about anything she took up. Richard watched her with some amusement and a little alarm. He warned her that it was purely dissatisfaction with her present life which was at the root of her acceptance of the faith – not her belief in it. But she turned from Richard; she turned to Humility.

She listened to him as his followers listened; he was a leader among men. His voice had a power and charm all its own. She saw the goodness in him.

‘Oh, Humility,' she cried. ‘I know that what happens to me here matters not. It is the life to come for which we must prepare ourselves.'

He embraced her and they knelt in prayer together. The miracle had happened. Tamar was saved.

And then, one day, Humility said an astonishing thing.

‘Tamar.' He had ceased to call her ‘daughter'. ‘Tamar, it is the greatest joy the Lord could have given me, to see you turn towards the Truth. You are at peace now. That is natural. But I have had a revelation concerning you. It is this: You are unfulfilled. You are meant to be the mother of children. You are released from the bonds of Satan. God is good; He is all-powerful and through His divine help I have been enabled to free you, for the power of the Devil compared with that of God is like a candle flame to the sun. I could lead you to contentment, to true happiness – which is the suppression of self in the service of God. Would that you would place your hand in mine and I might show you the way.'

She held out her hand and he took it.

‘Tamar, I did not intend ever to give way to the carnal lusts of the flesh . . . nor will I. But I have seen a new life opening before me. In the new land to which I hope to go, we shall need children . . . good, strong, noble children of the Puritan faith
to carry on the work we have started. Each woman should do her share; she must give herself a chance to show her fertility. Each man must do likewise. There need be no lust in a good man and a good woman coming together in matrimony.'

She drew away from him. ‘What do you suggest?'

‘That you and I marry and, in the grace of holy wedlock, have children to the glory of God and our faith.'

She felt the hot colour in her face. She was shocked by the suggestion; yet this was the answer to her problem. She longed for children, and in having Humility Brown's children she would help to populate the promised land to which one day they would go.

At last there could be a purpose in living. Perhaps for this reason Humility Brown had been sent to Plymouth; perhaps for this reason she had saved his life. At this moment it all seemed so right, so simple and natural.

‘I will marry you,' she said.

Afterwards she thought of what must be lived through before she reached that happy state of seeing her children round her, contented in a strange land, and she was afraid.

Dreams came to her as she lay in bed. Once she imagined that the curtains round her bed parted. That was a fancy; but she pursued it, and Bartle was standing by her bed. He said: ‘How can you marry that . . . Puritan! I will not let you!' And in the dream she felt his hands caress her.

Then she jumped out of bed and prayed solemnly and earnestly for the purification of her body and the salvation of her soul.

Queer dreams persisted – fearful dreams of anger and passion.

What have I done? she asked herself. How can I marry Humility Brown?

Richard was against the marriage, and he said so firmly. It was like mating a bird of paradise with a crow.

‘You have hurried into this with your usual impetuosity. I know you well – better than you know yourself. You have been depressed – not yourself – and you have been searching for a new interest in life. All this talk of going to Virginia has fired your imagination. I would to God . . .'

‘Yes?' she said.

‘It was nothing.'

‘Tell me. I want to know.'

‘Oh, it is foolish of us to make plans for others. I was merely wishing that I had insisted on a father's right, and married you to Bartle. He would not then have gone away and . . .'

He stopped, for she had buried her face in her hands and was sobbing bitterly.

‘Oh, Tamar, my dearest . . .'

‘It was just that I could not bear to hear you say it was my fault he is dead.'

‘Of course it was not your fault. If you did not want to marry him, you were right not to. What has happened to you, Tamar? You have changed so.'

‘I don't know what has happened to me,' she said.

‘I beg of you, my dear, consider this marriage and what it will mean. Consider that seriously. Let us go away for a sea trip. We'll hug the coast and sail up the Thames to London. Or shall we take our horses and ride?'

She shook her head. ‘My mind is made up. We want children . . . Humility and I. And, Richard, when we go to Virginia,
you
must come with us. I could not bear it if you stayed behind.' Her eyes shone suddenly. ‘You are rich. You could finance such an expedition. Richard, could you not tear yourself away from this life – which is not, I believe, very satisfactory to you – and start a new one?'

He answered: ‘You spring such questions on a man at a minute's notice.'

‘It would be wonderful!' she cried. ‘We would all sail out of the Sound together . . . with our stores and all that we should need for our new life. There could not be a more exciting and wonderful adventure than sailing away into the unknown.'

Richard let her talk, but he remained uneasy. It seemed to him that a girl should be thinking of her life with her husband rather than a life in new surroundings. Something had happened to change Tamar. Could it be that she had loved Bartle? She was like a person trying to get intoxicated in
order to drown a sorrow. Was the hope of children and the new life in Virginia, the wine to make her forget?

As the day fixed for her wedding grew nearer, her mood changed. She rode out to the moors, her hair flying, and it seemed to Richard, watching her, that the old Tamar was not far away. It would not have surprised him if she had decided against the marriage after all. She almost did, when Humility wished them to set up house together in the outhouses, which he suggested could be made into a cottage home for them. Then how her eyes flashed! That was folly, she insisted. They should go on living in the house. If he were to save every penny he could, those pennies should not be spent in the vanity of setting up a home. It would seem that he had forgotten the Virginia project.

‘Tamar,' said Humility, hurt by the change in her, ‘it is good that a man and his wife should set up home together . . . however humble that home may be. I do not wish that you should continue to live under your father's roof.'

‘And there,' she answered, ‘you show your pride. You will have to accept these conditions. You must remember that our plan is to leave this country as soon as it is possible to do so. Did we not plan to marry that we might have children to populate the new country?'

‘That was so.'

She gave a sudden spurt of laughter. ‘It is as easy to get children in a comfortable house as in a draughty cottage, I do assure you.'

Humility grew pale with alarm. He saw that the Devil was very close to her, and he realized that Tamar was not completely saved. Moreover, he guessed that it would take a lifetime for him to achieve that desired result.

He had to agree. No new arrangements, then. Her room was big enough for both of them. He would share her bed, which was large and comfortable, until they were sure of a child, and when that had happened he could go back to his attic.

He could not understand what was going on in her mind. He did not know that she was most defiant when her fear was greatest. Her frank way of discussing what he felt should not
be discussed by unmarried couples worried him. Yet, he assured himself, it was his duty to humour her until he could control her, which, he doubted not, he would be able to do with the Lord's help when they married.

So he must agree to this unnatural arrangement. Well, to some extent she was right. Soon they would be sailing for Virginia.

As the wedding day grew nearer, so did Tamar's fear grow greater. At the back of her mind was a belief that Bartle would reappear; he would explain that some miraculous and incredible thing had happened – the sort of thing which could only happen to Bartle – and he had come back. His blue eyes would flash, and he would have a blackmailing scheme to lay before her which would involve her breaking this incongruous betrothal and marrying him. She would no doubt be forced to do it for the sake of someone other than herself.

But the wedding day came, and she married Humility Brown; and now the house was still and she lay in the bed with the curtains drawn about it, just as she had lain and waited for Bartle.

She could hear the sound of a man's breathing beyond the bed-curtains – but it was not Bartle; it was her husband, Humility Brown.

He had parted the curtains as they had been parted on those other nights and she could see him as only a shape beside the bed – not the big broad shape which she had seen before, but the thin figure of her husband.

How different was this night from those others! Humility did not come eagerly to her; he did not whisper in that passionate voice; he did not caress her with urgent hands. He knelt by the bed and prayed.

‘O Heavenly Father, it is because I believe it to be Thy will that I kneel at this bedside tonight. I pray Thee bless this woman, make her fertile, for, O Lord, it is for that reason I am here this night . . . not for carnal lust . . . but for the procreation of children as is laid down in Thy law. Thou knowest how I have grappled with myself . . .'

Tamar could listen to no more. How dare he call her ‘this
woman'! He was not here for love of her, but in the hope of begetting children that they might do their share in populating the new land.

But her anger was lost in the numbness of regret, of a longing for another man, as Humility rose from his knees, and came to her.

A month after her marriage to Humility Brown, Tamar knew that she was pregnant. Now her depression had lifted; she was glad she had married; this new adventure was going to be worth the step she had taken to achieve it.

She lost no time in imparting the news to Humility, and the first thing he did was to go down on his knees and thank God, but when he arose she imagined that he was not so thankful as it had first appeared.

She understood why, for although to Humility, who believed himself to be wise, she was a mysterious creature of odd and unaccountable moods, she was able to read him as easily as a printed sheet.

She was to have a child; the purpose of their nightly embraces was achieved; therefore until after the child was born these must be suspended. How could it be otherwise as, he had so often declared to God in her hearing, they took place for only one reason? That was in the nightly prayer he said at her bedside.

‘God has answered our prayer!' he said.

‘Now,' she told him with a trace of malice, ‘you may with good conscience go back to your attic.'

He was taken aback, but she went on quickly: ‘That would be wisest. It would be unfortunate if, after all your protestations, you were to give way to carnal lust – which you might well do if you continued to share my bed.'

He despaired of her, she knew. She had no modesty, he told her. He pointed out that she said, without thinking, whatever came into her mind. He hoped that one day she would learn from Puritan women to veil her thoughts – even from herself.

She smiled. The last month had brought her soul no nearer to salvation, she teared. It had been very close, she knew,
when she had promised to marry him, but alas! it grew farther away.

He went back to his attic and she was relieved; she was mistress of her own domain once more; she had the child safe within her, and that was all she wanted of him.

She would have Annis sent to her room, or go herself to the cottage. They would bend over their sewing and talk incessantly of the baby. Tamar even learned to take a pride in her work, which astonished her, for she had never before been attracted to the needle. She sat and dreamed of the baby, and she believed that she was happier now than she had ever been; she ceased to think of the journey to Virginia, for her only thought was of the child.