Daughter of Satan (36 page)

‘There I disagree, and so would the Elders. The boy should not have absented himself without permission. I insist that on his return the necessary correction shall be administered.'

‘You mean . . .'

‘“He that spareth his rod hateth his son.” That boy is already spoiled. He needs a father.'

‘I assure you that I am the best judge of how a child of mine shall be brought up.'

She turned and walked away, her head held high. Had she stayed another moment, she would have been unable to control her furious anger.

The hunting party returned at the end of that day with enough meat to provide the whole settlement with a good meal. Tamar saw them coming, saw Dick striding along beside Bartle; and she felt a pride rise up in her. Dick was almost a man.

James Milroy was there to watch the return of the party, and the very way in which his thin lips were pressed together told Tamar that he was going to demand the punishment of her son.

She saw the man approach the boy and lay his hand on his shoulder. She saw the boy's eyes flash as he moved closer to Bartle.

Then she heard Dick's voice, high-pitched and indignant. ‘'Twas hunting! 'Twas finding food! That is a good thing to do.'

Tamar's heart leaped, for Bartle now faced James Milroy, and Bartle, drawing himself up to his full height, was laughing
in the face of the man, with that bold insolence which Tamar knew well.

There was a hush about them. Pleasure in the return of the hunters with good meat was lost, for here was a troublous note introduced into the harmony of the occasion.

‘I took the boy with me,' said Bartle. ‘If any has to answer for his going, then that is myself. What do you wish, sir – to challenge me? Come then, I am ready. Shall we fight with the sword or the fist? It matters not to me. Nor will it to you in less than a minute for, by God, I swear . . .'

But one of the Elders had approached them, had laid a hand on Bartle's arm.

‘Sir Bartle, I beg of you, restrain yourself.'

Bartle growled: ‘Let him leave the boy alone, then. Anyone who dares lay a hand on him answers to me.'

‘It is forbidden,' said James Milroy, ‘that children should go into the forest without the consent of parents or the authorities.'

‘He came with his parent's consent,' said Bartle.

‘I know that to be an untruth.'

‘You dare insult me?'

But James Milroy, although he knew himself to be no match for the great blustering Captain, was not a coward. He would not have been of this community if he had not been a brave man. He fervently believed in the righteousness of what he was doing.

‘It is you who insult the truth, Sir Bartle. His mother was anxious. She was looking for him. I met her and told her where he was.'

Bartle's eyes narrowed. He would have laid his hands on the man, but the Elder said: ‘His mother is here; she will tell us of this matter. You were anxious, were you not, Mistress Brown? You had not given the child permission and it was for you to give it, as the child, alas, has no father to guide him.'

Tamar glared angrily at the Puritan, James Milroy.

‘The boy had my permission to go. He is allowed to hunt with Sir Bartle whenever he wishes.

James Milroy looked at her in startled horror. He would
not have been surprised if the heavens had opened and Tamar had been struck dumb or even dead.

What is the use of my trying to be one of them? Tamar asked herself.

She was a pagan; she and Bartle were of a kind. What cared she if she must tell a lie to save her son pain and humiliation! And what cared Bartle?

Afterwards she was remorseful. She had been wrong. Better for Dick to have taken his beating than for her to have perjured her soul.

Moreover, she had given way to Bartle; she had sided with him and the old ways against the Puritans and the new.

‘The idea,' said Bartle, ‘of wanting to punish a boy because he goes off for a day's hunting! Leave him to me and I will make a man of him.'

‘He must learn to obey rules . . . the rules of the community in which he lives.'

‘He will learn what it is good for him to learn, with me as his teacher.'

‘I would have him grow up good and noble.'

‘As his father?' said Bartle. ‘A poor frail thing of a man who jumps into the sea because he is tempted to make love to his wife!'

‘How dare you!'

‘Now that is more like yourself. By God, I'd a thousand times rather see you stormy than pious.'

She was about to blaze at him when she seemed to see the ghost of Humility standing beside him; and it was as though she saw Bartle through Humility's eyes – the Devil incarnate, there to tempt her.

She turned away, but she heard Bartle's laughter following her; and she guessed that plans were forming in his mind.

After that Dick hardly ever left Bartle's side. Dick worshipped Bartle. Once the boy looked at his mother critically and said: ‘
You
used to be more like Sir Bartle, Mamma. Now you are becoming like these people.'

‘Dick,' she asked earnestly, ‘don't you like living here with these people?'

‘I like living here,' he said significantly, ‘because I like hunting with Sir Bartle. One day . . . I shall go sailing with him. When he goes back to England, he's promised that I . . .'

The boy stopped. But she understood. Bartle was winning the boy from her.

She was tormented by the thought. She prayed constantly. She could not talk to Richard of this matter, for Richard wished her to marry Bartle. Richard had not believed in her first conversion; he did not believe in this one.

A few weeks after the arrival of the
Liberty
another ship called at New Plymouth, and aboard her were Dutch settlers from farther along the coast. Great hospitality was shown to the guests, for, as the Governor said, he and the entire colony were happy when people came as friends instead of enemies.

These Dutchman expressed great admiration for the New Plymouth way of life; they were astonished that the Pilgrims had experienced so little trouble with the red-skinned men; the French and Dutch in other parts of this great continent had not found the natives so amenable.

Tamar knew then that this was due to the example of goodness and honour set by the men of New Plymouth. So pronounced and unswerving was this code that it was one which savages could see was desirable. These Englishmen were born colonizers, as was no other nation on Earth; they possessed a natural dignity and a way of straight-dealing which was apparent to all men, whatever their colour, whatever their creed. Brave they were; but so were other settlers who had left their homes for a new life in a strange land. But Tamar saw this quality, which they possessed in a larger degree than men of other nations, as a calm dignity, an ability to suppress feelings, whether of anger or joy, so that those who gave vent to such feelings must inevitably find themselves at a disadvantage when opposing such men; there was a slowness to anger in these men, but once righteous indignation was aroused, there was in them a determination of purpose, stubborn insistence on finishing what they had begun; and these qualities made of them men to respect and to fear. Among such men – and such men only – could she follow magnificent examples and work out her salvation.

Christmas was near and Tamar planned a celebration for the children. There should be, she promised them, dancing, games and feasting. The children went dancing down Leyden Street, all chattering about the Christmas feast.

Word came to Tamar that one of the Elders wished to speak to her, and she went along to his house.

‘Sit down, dear sister,' he said. ‘I must have speech with thee. I have heard of the feast you would give on Christ's birthday.'

Tamar waited and, after a pause, he went on: ‘Our Lord Jesus, sister, was a Man of Sorrows, and it is not meet that the day of His birth should be celebrated with feasting and games. That day should be given to prayer.'

‘But . . .' she began.

He lifted his hand. ‘Hear me out, I pray you. I thought I would tell you first, before it is explained to the children that there cannot be this . . . this bacchanalia. You have, I fear – in your ignorance, I know, and not from wanton guilt – imbued them with the wrong ideas. Fear not, sister, we do not blame you. We merely wish to show you the folly of your ways.'

‘But it is simple fun for the children. It is no . . . bacchanalia. It is just a little pleasure . . . a little fun.'

‘Dear sister, you have brought old ideas with you from England. All that wickedness we left behind us. There is not room for it in the New World. Do not fret. We have seen you striving to become one of us and are pleased with your progress. We wish to help you, and that is why, in addition to explaining to you your mistake about Christ's birthday, I have asked you to come here.'

She lifted her eyes to his face; she knew they were beginning to blaze. She wanted to run out of this room, which seemed suddenly oppressive. She noted the shelf which contained a few books, chief of which was a translation of the Bible done in Holland; she looked down at the rushes on the floor, and from the floor to the windows with their oiled paper; and she suddenly remembered with an almost intolerable nostalgia her bedroom in the house at Pennicomquick with the carpet on the floor and real glass in the window, and the bed with its
rich curtains. She wanted to escape from this restricted, primitive life; she wanted to be free. Free? But it was to this land she had come in search of freedom.

She suppressed the thought. Humility seemed to be there, pointing an accusing finger at her. She waited as patiently as she could.

‘You are a young woman still. You are a strong woman. You have bred children and could breed more. It is your duty to God and to your new country to have children to worship Him and cultivate your adopted land. You are too young to remain unmarried. Pray do not look startled. I have good news for you. There is one among us who is prepared to marry you, to guide you, and to be a father to those children you already have, while he will endeavour to give you more.'

She felt her lips curl in uncontrollable scorn. ‘And who is this man?'

‘James Milroy. A good man, a noble man, a man who has long dedicated his life to the service of God. He has watched you protectively since you have been here. He has felt you and your children to be in need of correction and guidance; and he feels that God has selected him for the task. He is willing – nay, anxious – to obey the will of the Lord.'

‘If he looks for a wife,' she said, ‘there are others more worthy than I.'

But the Elder did not notice the edge on her voice. ‘That may be. But our dear brother Milroy was never a man to shirk his duty when he sees it plain before him. He is therefore willing to take you to him as his wife.'

‘That is generous of him indeed. You may tell him this: When I marry, and if I marry, I shall choose my own husband.'

‘You make many mistakes, sister. Your life is full of mistakes. You have brought evil ideas with you from the Old World, and you cling to them. You have set yourself up to teach our boys. We like that not. A woman's duty is not to instruct men, and these boys will one day be men. Nay! We would see you as other women – at your spinning wheel, helping in the fields at harvest and, above all, a wife to give us children. Yes, dear sister, we have accepted you. One of us
offers to take care of your life, to guide you into the paths which will lead to your salvation and the glorification of God.'

She was too dazed to speak. She could only think: James Milroy! That man!

And when she pictured him, the quiet, solemn-eyed man changed in her mind's eye to Humility Brown.

The voice went on: ‘You are of the weaker sex, dear sister; and it is easy to see that in the Old Country you have been spoiled. Your father continues to spoil you. We are pleased with him and the work he is doing for us, and we know that one day he will be completely with us. We shall rejoice on that day. But there is much he too has to learn. You have been unfortunate in your upbringing and we are sorry for you. You have been given beauty; and beauty, dear sister, is not always a gift from God. Or it may be that it is given by the Almighty as a special burden to be carried through a life. Women are frail creatures. We must never forget that they are not the equals of men. They must never forget that they are the weaker vessels. They must remain subservient to the good men who marry them. Never forget that it was Eve who listened to the temptation of the serpent. It was due to Eve that Adam, our forefather, was turned out of Eden. Adam was weak; but Eve was wicked; and all women are descendants of Eve as all men are of Adam. Women are more easily tempted to sin, being of weaker intellect than men, and therefore must obey their husbands in all things. Children are born in sin and must be sternly led to righteousness. It is a great task which falls upon us men.'

‘A great task doubtless!' she said.

‘And you will allow me to send Master Milroy along to your father's house?'

She lowered her lids that he might not see the blaze of her eyes, and when she spoke her voice was scarcely audible, such an effort did she have to make to control it. ‘I am too sinful for such a man,' she said. ‘It will be well for such an Adam to find a more worthy Eve, someone who has not had to carry this heavy burden of beauty through her life.'

‘Your modesty is not unbecoming . . .' began the Elder.

But she said hastily as she turned to the door: ‘I will bid you good day.'

She hurried to the beach and dragged the nearest boat to the water. Furiously she rowed out to the
Liberty
.

Scrambling aboard, she cried to one of the sailors: ‘Tell Sir Bartle I am here. I wish to see him . . . at once!'

She leaned over the bulwarks waiting, but she did not have to wait for long. He gave a mighty roar of laughter when he saw her. Unlike the Elder, he knew her rages when he saw them.