16 - Black Flemings by Kathleen Norris

Gabrielle has always called the imposing brick mansion on the rugged New England coast home. But when she returns to Wastewater Hall, she finds it transformed into a sinister place brimming with malevolence. As she delves deeper into the dark mysteries that have overtaken her beloved home, each step brings her closer to danger—and perhaps even death. Join Gabrielle on her harrowing journey to uncover the truth behind this haunting transformation. - Summary by kirk202

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter sixteen of The Black Flemings by Kathleen Norris. This
LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter sixteen. The
weeks that followed seemed to Gabriela Fleming, even at that
time when they were actually passing, strangely and darkly unnatural,
and afterward, there remained a fearful memory in her life.

(00:24):
Long before the tragedy in which they culminated, she was
quite definitely conscious of some brooding cloud, some horror impending
over the household. She filled herself bound by a strange
interior inhibition, or by a hundred inherited and instinctive inhibitions,
from speaking freely, from throwing off or attempting to throw off,

(00:48):
the fears that possessed her Outwardly. As the serene autumn
darkened and shortened into winter, the household seemed merely what
the return of the air had made it. Tom invalided,
restless in love with his cousin, Gabriella Sylvia, beautiful and
confident as she faced the changed future. Aunt Flora silent,

(01:12):
coughing with her usual autumn bronchitis, moving about the house
as the very personification of his sinister history. David graven,
kindly managing, advising, affectionate with them all, and the staff
of kindly old servants, duly drying shades, lighting fires, serving meals. Actually,

(01:35):
Gabriella felt sometimes that they were all madmen in a madhouse,
and vague, disturbing thoughts of her own, unfortunate little mother
would flit through her mind, and she would wonder if
her own reason would sustain much of this sort of suspense.
For suspense it was. The girl knew not why or
what she feared, and they all feared. But she knew

(01:58):
that their most resolute attempts at laughter and chatter somehow
fell flat, that they glanced nervously over their shoulders when
a door slammed, and that the shadows and gloom of
the half used old place seemed of an autumn evening,
when the winds were crying to be, creeping from the
corners and lurking in the halls, ready to capture whatever

(02:19):
was young and happy in dark old wastewater and destroy it,
as so much youth and happiness years ago had been destroyed. Nowadays,
she fancied the very voices of the maids as they
talked over trays or brooms in the hall took on
wailing notes, The clocks ticked, patient warnings. A shattered coal

(02:40):
on the fire would make them all jump. Gabriella, with
her heart beginning a quick and unreasoning beat, would turn
off her bath water lest its roaring drowned. Some morning
sound would stand poised in a wrapper, as if for
flight from She knew not what listening listening, But it
was only October winds sweeping the trees bare of their

(03:03):
last tattered banners, Only the fresh, harsh rush of the
sea against the rocks, and the scream of a blown gull. Sylvia,
does it make you feel as if you would like
to scream? Sometimes? Gay asked one day, in the bare
sunlight of the garden. Does what But in Sylvia's dark
eyes there was perfect comprehension. It's almost, she added, in

(03:28):
a low tone, as if people did really stay about
a place to haunt it. That poor little shadow ceasily
the second Missus Fleming who died, and your mother and
my father and uncle Roger, and all their passions and
all their hates, Gabriella said in a fearful whisper, glancing

(03:48):
up at the grim outlines of the enormous pile, and
all those dusty, empty halls and locked rooms to me,
She went on, speaking, with her eyes still on the
black brick, black vine covered house. It is all colored
by that horrifying experience here in the side lane, almost
a year ago, when I first saw my mother. The

(04:10):
mere memory of it frightened her. She seemed to see
again the gray swirls of snow in the shadowy lane,
the writhing, huddled gray figure among the writhing ropes and
curtains of white Gabriela, don't, Sylvia said quickly, with a
nervous laugh. No, but Sylvia, you feel it too. Ah,

(04:31):
of course I do. Mam is so ill and silent,
Tom so strange. David not. Sylvia's lip trembled, as much
as to her own surprise as gaze. David is not himself,
she said, hurriedly. He came back from this trip changed.
Whether it is Tom's return with all the memories and changes,

(04:54):
I don't know, only added Sylvia, quite frankly, blinking wet eyes.
Only I have noticed a change in him just lately,
and it has worried me. Perhaps it is only a
passing face for us all, she interrupted herself hastily. One
of those wretched times that all families go through, partly

(05:15):
weather and partly nerves, and partly changes in sickness, and
largely waste water, Gay said, hugging her greatcoat about her
as the girls rapidly walked about the garden. There seems
to be an atmosphere about the place stronger than us all.
We're all nervous, jumpy. Last night, just as I was

(05:37):
about to turn out the light in the sitting room,
it seemed to me the picture of Uncle Roger was,
I don't know, breathing, looking at me alive. I almost screamed.
And the night after David came back, I picked up
his letters. He had dropped them in the hall, and
when I knocked on his door with them, he fairly

(05:58):
shouted what's that? And frightened me and himself too. He
told me, almost out of our senses. I don't sleep well,
Sylvia confessed, I don't believe any of us do. I
don't think we should stay here if Tom has to
go away, she stopped. It was impossible not to assume

(06:20):
now that Tom's plans depended upon Gabriella. Yet there was
about the younger girl, none of the happiness that comes
with a flattering and welcome affair. Gabriella instead, was quite
obviously experiencing a deepening depression and uneasiness. Every day showed
her more clearly that Tom considered her bound to marry him,

(06:42):
interpreting everything she said and did according to his own
cheerfully complacent self confidence. Her kindness had carried her too
far now for honorable retreat. She could not even get
away from waste water to think in peace, for Tom
would not hear of separation. They had known each other
long enough, They had considered enough, he said. When Aunt

(07:05):
Flora and Sylvia took the apartment of which they were
always speaking for the winter, Tom and Gabriella would be
married and go south together, go anywhere she wanted to go,
but together Bermuda, or Florida or San Diego were all
equally indifferent to Tom as long as he had his
wife with him. The very words made Gabriella's blood run cold.

(07:30):
It was in vain that she tried to imagine herself, married, rich,
going about the world as missus Tom, fleming every fiber
of body and soul revolted. She liked Tom. She would
have done almost anything to please him. But somehow the
thought of him as her husband made her feel a
little faint. Yet, how after all this kindly talk, after

(07:55):
these hours of listening of companionship, suddenly break free, Gabriella
dared ask no help. Sylvia or aunt Flora would only
hurt him a thousand times more than she would. Even
David's touch could not be trusted here. Besides, she did
not feel herself deserving of help or extrication. She had

(08:17):
brought this most uncomfortable state of affairs upon herself. She
had been too kind to Tom. She had let him
drift happily into the idea that they cared for each other.
The girl began to feel, with a sort of feverish tear,
that she must be free, free, if she had to
run away into the world alone from a distance. She

(08:39):
could write them, she could explain, but she could not
go on in this fashion. With every hour deepening, the
misunderstanding between herself and Tom, tightening the net. November came in,
bare and cold, with a faint powdering of snow up
on the frozen ground. Suddenly summer time and shining seas

(09:01):
and sunshine seemed, but dreams life had become all winter.
There would never be warmth and flowers again. Waste water
was bleakly cold. Oil stoves burned coldly like lifeless, red
eyed stage fires in mica and colored glass. The halls
were frigid, The family huddled about fires, tools sounded metallically

(09:26):
all day. Upon the new radiators, as still unconnected, stood about,
wet and cold and forlorn against the walls. Tom spent
most of his days upstairs in his study, where a
roaring air tight stove connected with the old flu made
the air warm. He must start southward soon, they all said,

(09:47):
And yet there was no definite plan of a departure.
David was still immersed in the business of the estate.
Flora was wretched with rheumatism and malaria. God Gabriella, of
them all, was the least anxious to suggest a change,
and so precipitate a settlement with Tom. On the fourth

(10:09):
day of the month came the great wind, Keyport and Crowchester,
and indeed all the towns along the coast for miles
would long talk of it, would date domestic events from it.
The night of the third was cold and deathly clear,
with a fiery, unwarming sunset behind somber black tree trunks,

(10:29):
and a steely brightness over the sea. Gabriella saw milk
white frost in the upturned clods in the garden. The
light was hardly gone when a harsh moonlight lay upon
the bare, black world. There was a good deal of
air stirring in the night, and toward morning it grew
so cold that the girls, chattering and shaking, met in

(10:52):
the halls, seeking blankets and hot bottles. Gay and Sylvia
knocked on David's door, he must take extra covering to tom.
David's teeth clicked, and his laughter had a goodish sound
as he obeyed. The day broke gray and cold in
a hurricane that racked and bowed. The trees and bushes

(11:12):
laid the chrysanthemum's flat rattled dry frozen leaves and broken
branches on the porches. White caps raced on the gray
rough sea. Door slammed, casements rattled, and at regular intervals
the wind seemed to curl about the house like a
visible thing, and whined and chuckled and sobbed in the chimneys.

(11:34):
Fires were kept burning, and Sylvia and Gabriella, in their
thickest sweaters, stuffed the sitting room window ledges with paper
to keep out the straight, icy current of air. The
family was at breakfast with the lights lighted, when one
of the oldest maples came down with a long, splintering
crash that was like a slow scream. During the morning,

(11:57):
two other smaller trees fell, and who, however, opened an
outside door, was immediately spun about and in a general
uproar and rattle and flutter of everything inside, was obliged
to beg help in closing it. After luncheon, John came
in to say that his wife and little girl were
so nervous that he was going to take them into

(12:18):
Crowchester he could get the papers. No, David said, I
may walk into Keyport later. You'll never keep your feet
on the roads, sir. I've never seen such a blow
in my life. There was great gouts of foam blown
far back as the cowbarn. John said, respectfully, I tied

(12:40):
up the mill. David only smiled and shrugged, and at
three o'clock went down to the side door, belted into
his thick old coat. Sylvia and Gabriella, he had seen
a few minutes before, established with Tom and Aunt Flora
in the comfortable study far upstairs, where there was a
good fire burn. As he slept out and dragged the

(13:03):
door shut behind him, the wind snatched at him, and
for a moment he really doubted his ability to make
even Keyport less than three miles away. There was a
whirlwind loose in the yard. Everything that could bang or blow,
or rattle or shriek was in motion, and the roar
of the sea was deafening. The sun shone fitfully between

(13:26):
onslaughts from clouds that swept across a low iron sky.
There had been a cold rush of hail an hour
or two before. Ledges and north fronts were still heaped
white with it. There was not a boat upon the
running high waters of the sea. David, letting himself out
at the narrow back gate, saw the waves crashing up

(13:48):
against the Keyport piers and flinging themselves high into the gray,
cold air. Waste water stood upon a point, and there
was less uproar on the highway than upon their cliffs.
The wind faced him steadily here, stinging tears into his
eyes and pressing away like a moving wall against his breast.

(14:10):
There was no escaping at there was no dodging. David
bent his head into it. Knowing only that the road
was hard and yellow beneath his staggering feet. He jumped
and shouted as a hand touched his arm, and he
saw at his elbow Gabriella's blown and laughing and yet
somewhat frightened face. Unsure of her welcome, she caught her

(14:34):
arm tightly in his and pushed along gallantly at his shoulder.
I couldn't stand it, she shouted, above the shriek of
the wind. I had to get out. What did Aunt
Flora say, he shouted back, moving ahead, simply because it
was impossible to stand still. She doesn't know. I only
told Hetta when I came downstairs. Gay screamed, well, hang tight,

(15:00):
and together they breasted the wall of air. Gay, you
were mad to do this, David shouted, after a hard mile. Oh,
I'm loving it, answered her, exalting voice, close at his ear.
I'm loving it too, he said, And suddenly they were
both human, free of the shadows, able to laugh and struggle,

(15:22):
to catch hands and shout again. On their left, the
sea raged and bubbled above them, swept the wild airs,
clouds and cold sunshine raced over the world, and the
wind sailed with foam and mad leaves. But perhaps to
both the man and the woman, the physical struggle, after
these weeks of mental strain was actually refreshing. At all events.

(15:47):
They reached Keyport after an hour's battling in wild spirits.
The little town was made weather tight against the storm
and presented only close shutters and fastened stormed to the visitors.
Gabriella and David made their way along the main street,
catching at knobs and corners, and were blown into the

(16:09):
bleak little post office, whose floors were strewn with torn
papers and tracked with dried mud. The old postmaster eyed
them over his goggles with mild surprise as he gave
them letters from a mitt and hand. The place smelled
warmly of coal, oil and hot metal. Its quiet dazed them.
After the buffet of the storm, the piers were deserted,

(16:33):
except for a few anxious gulls that were blown crying
above the lashing waves. A group of tippted boys exclaimed
and shouted over the tide that had caught the end
of river Street. David guided his companion into key Ports
one forlorn little restaurant, and they sat at a narrow
table spread with steel cutlery and a lamp spotted cloth,

(16:57):
drinking what Gabriella said was the best coffee she had
ever tasted. You crazy woman, David said, affectionately, watching her
as she sipped her scalding drink from a thick cup
and smiled at him through the tawny mist of her
blown hair. He had, with some difficulty made arrangements for

(17:17):
the being driven back in the butcher's ford at half
past five, when the butcher's shop was closed. David did
not dare risk the walk home in the early dark,
and Gabriella now began to feel, through her delicious relaxation
a certain muscle ache, and was willing to be reasonable
so that they had a full hour to employ, and

(17:40):
they spent it leaning upon the little table, sharing hot
toast and weak coffee, straightening the thick table, furnishing setting,
sugar bowl and toothpick glass over the spots, talking, talking,
talking as they had never talked before. Gabriella poured out
her troubles like an exhauststed child. Her eyes glowed like

(18:02):
stars in the gathering dusk, her cheeks deepened to an
exquisite epricot pink under the warm, creamy colorlessness. David watched her,
listened said little, but he began to realize that she
was genuinely suffering and depressed. And in the end a
clean program was planned, and David promised to put it

(18:25):
into immediate execution. Gabriella liked tom but not as much
as he thought she did. She wanted to get away
at once tomorrow or day after tomorrow, to straighten out
her thoughts and to see the whole tangle from a distance.
Very good, said David, drawing a square on the tablecloth

(18:46):
with the point of a fork. Aunt Flora should be
told the whole story, and Gay should go into Boston
at once to see well, to see a dentist. She
must develop a toothache tomorrow morning, or as soon as
the storm subsided. She could telegraph the nuns to night
and be with them about this time tomorrow. When he

(19:09):
saw how her eyes danced, and how impulsively she clasped
her fingers together at the mere notion, David was able
to form some idea of the strain she had been under. Oh, David,
to see the streets and and people again, to feel
that I needn't face tom Meanwhile, David proceeded with his

(19:30):
plan I'll get Tom to go off with me somewhere,
just for a few weeks, Norfolk maybe, or Palm Beach.
It may clear up his mind too, and perhaps I
can explain to him that while you do like him,
you don't feel quite ready to be any man's wife.
I can tell him that the thought of it upsets you. Ah, David,

(19:52):
what an angel you are. But then what about Sylvia
and Aunt Flora. Well, they can follow you into Bosston.
Sylvia spoke to me about either doing library work or
teaching in some girls' school. They can be looking about
for an apartment. But the main point is, inded David,
that you get out of it at once, before you

(20:14):
make yourself sick. It seems so cowardly, said Gabriella, fairly
trembling in her eagerness and satisfaction. No, it's not cowardly.
I suppose it is what all girls feel, David said,
in a somewhat questioning voice, before they get married. That's
just it, Gay confessed, her cheeks suddenly scarlet. I don't

(20:38):
know what most girls feel, and I haven't any mother,
she paused, But David, looking at her over his cigarette,
merely flushed a little in his turn and did not speak.
But I know this. Gabriella went on, feeling for words,
and ranging knives and forks and spoons in orderly rows

(20:59):
very as she spoke. I know that what makes me
feel so so doubtful about marrying Tom isn't isn't being afraid? David?
She struggled on, her eyes pleading, and her cheeks childishly red.
It's not being afraid. Their eyes met across the sorry

(21:19):
little board, and for a moment the strange look held,
and neither spoke. I've been playing a part with Tom,
Gabriella said, after a pause. And I could go on
plain it. I could marry him tomorrow and still like
him and be kind to him. But David, she said,
in a whisper, is that enough? I don't know, Dear

(21:42):
David said, with a dry mouth. You mean that it
could be different, He added, presently, that it would be
different if it were that other man of whom you
spoke to me one day. The girl only nodded in answer,
her eyes fixed with a sort of fear and shame,
and curried upon his If it were the other man,

(22:03):
she thought, if it were David, And at that the
mere flying dream of what marriage to David would mean.
Going out into life with David, Gabriella felt her heart
swell until something like an actual pain suffocated her, and
her senses swam together. He sat there, unconscious, kindly everything

(22:25):
that was good and clever, handsome, and infinitely dear, and
she dared not even stretch out her hand to lay
it upon his. His black hair was blown into loose waves,
his old rough coat hung open, His fine, dark eyes
and firm mouth expressed only sympathy and concern. She dared

(22:45):
not think what love might do to them. I want
to be afraid when I'm married, she said. I want
to feel that I am putting my life into somebody's keeping,
going into a strange country, not just assuming new responsibility
in the old I think I understand, David said, and,
feeling that further talk of this sort was utterly unsafe

(23:08):
for him and likely to prove only more unsettling to her,
he proposed that they walked to the Whittakers a few
blocks away and see how the large and cheerful family
was weathering the storm. The Whittaker's mother, two unmarried daughters,
two young sons, married daughter with husband and baby were

(23:29):
having a family tea that looked enchanting to Gabriella and
David coming in out of the wind. The big room
was deliciously warm, and Missus Whittaker put Gay, who was
a little shy, beside her and talked to her so
charmingly that the girl's heart expanded like a flower in sunshine.

(23:49):
Missus Whittaker had known Gay's poor little mother, and both
of Roger Fleming's wives. She said that, by a curious coincidence,
she had had a letter that very day from Mary Rosecrans.
But you don't remember her, of course, she said. She
was a lovely nurse, a Crowchester girl, but married now

(24:09):
and living in Australia. Let me see nineteen Dickie's eighteen.
She must have married when you were only a baby.
But I had her when my Dickie here was born,
and poor little missus Roger Fleming had her for months
and months at wastewater. Now, mister Fleming, are you going
to let me keep this child over night? The girls

(24:32):
will take good care of her, Oh do, said Sallie
and Harriet in one voice, and the Whittaker baby smiled
up innocently into Gabriella's face, And why didn't you do
this long ago, Gabriella, they reproached her. You've been home
almost a year, Gabriella, kissing the top of the baby's

(24:53):
downy head, explained, David thought her more than ordinarily lovely
in this group of youth and beauty. Harriet and Sally
had been at boarding school, she reminded them, and Missus
Whittaker had been staying with Anna and the new baby,
and then Tom Fleming had come home. Ah, but now
do do this again soon, you dear children, their hostess said,

(25:17):
when Gabriella had pleaded that she really dared not stay,
having run away for a walk in the wind as
it was, And when the butcher's hooded delivery wagon was
at the door, and Gabriella went out, clinging to David's arm,
into the creaking, banging, roaring darkness, with the motherly good
bye kiss warm upon her forehead. The delight of this

(25:40):
long afternoon of adventure and the prospect of escape tomorrow
kept her laughing all the way home, and even when
they got there, she seemed to carry something of the
wholesome Whittaker fireside, something of the good out of doors
with her into waste water but swiftly, relentlessly, the chilling

(26:00):
atmosphere of repressions and fear shut down upon them all again. Outside,
the night rioted madly, and the old house creaked and
strained like a vessel at sea. Indoors, light seemed to
make but a wavering impression on the gloom of the
big rooms. Doors burst open, casements shook with a noise

(26:21):
like artillery fire, and voices seemed to have strange echoes
and hollow booming notes. Once some window far upstairs was
blown in, and the maids went upstairs in a flight,
exclaiming under their breath and slamming a score of doors
on their way. Chilly drafts penetrated everywhere, and the dining

(26:42):
room had a strange, earthy smell, like a bolt. The
girls wore their heavy coats to dinner, and after dinner
went up to Tom's study and build up the fire
until the air tight stove roared and turned a clear pink.
Tom lay on his couch. He had been oddly moody
and silent tonight. Gabriella played solitaire, talking as she played,

(27:07):
Sylvia scribbled French verbs in the intervals of the conversation.
David and Aunt Flora had been with them until something
after nine o'clock. Then Flora had somewhat awkwardly and heavily
asked him to come down with her to the sitting room.
She wished to talk to him. This was a common
enough circumstance, for business matters were constantly arising for discussion,

(27:32):
but her manner was strange tonight, Gabriella thought, and the
girl's heart beat quickly as they went away. Now David
would tell her that she Gabriella wanted to go into
Boston for a few days. Perhaps he was telling her now.
A quiet half hour went by, and then Sylvia stretched
herself lazily and admitted that she was already half asleep.

(27:56):
Tom had been lying with half shut eyes, but with
a look so steadily fixed upon Gabriella that the girl
was heartily glad to suggest that they all go downstairs.
There had been something sinister, something triumphant, and yet menacing
in that quiet, unchanging look. She had met it every
time she looked up from her cards, and it had

(28:19):
finally blotted everything but itself from her thoughts. Tom rose obediently,
and Sylvia folded his rug for him and went about
straightening the room. The girls were accustomed to perform small
services for Tom, who really was not strong enough to
be quite independent of them. Yet all three went downstairs together,

(28:41):
Gabriella loitering for a few minutes in Sylvia's room, not
so much because she had anything to say, as because
the nervousness and the vague apprehension that possessed her like
a fever made her fear her own company. When she
turned back into the hall again, Gabriella was surprised to
see Tom's standing in his doorway. Did I leave my

(29:03):
pipe up stairs? He asked in an awed voice. Oh
did you, Tom, Gabriella asked eagerly, always glad to be
useful to him, the more so as she found it
more and more difficult to be affectionate. No let me,
let me, she begged, taking the candle from his hand.

(29:24):
I'll not be two minutes again, she remembered. Afterward. He
was smiling his odd, triumphant yet threatening smile, but he
said nothing as she took the lighted candle and started
on the long way upstairs to the study, guarding the
candle in the savage currents of air that leaked everywhere
through windows and doors. Gabriella had to move slowly, and

(29:48):
in spite of herself. The swooping darkness about her, the
wild racket of the storm outside, and the shadows that
wheeled and leaped before her frail little light made her
suddenly afraid again. She was desperately afraid, David Sylvia. All
the human voices and hands seemed worlds away. Tom's study

(30:10):
was two floors above Gabriella's room, three above his own,
and in a somewhat unused wing. The wind in this
part of the house was singing in half a score
of whining and shrieking voices together, and there was a
thunderous sound of something banging, booming, banging again with muffled blows,

(30:30):
as if Gabriella thought the house had gotten into the sea,
or the sea into the house, and the waves were
bursting over her. Just as she reached for the handle
of the study door, her candle went out, and Gabriella,
with a pounding heart, groped in the warm blackness for
the table in the matches and the blessed light. Again.

(30:52):
She was only a few minutes away from the protection
and safety of the downstairs room. She told her heart,
just along, and a half moment of finding the pipe again,
and then the swift flight downstairs, anyhow, any fashion to
get downstairs. Her investigating hands found the brass box of matches.

(31:13):
She struck one and held it with a shaking hand
to her candle. There was no glow from the stove now,
and the feeble light broke up inky masses of darkness.
The square mansard windows strained, as if any second they
would burst in a charge of howling wind swept by
the window, swept on like a herd of bellowing buffaloes

(31:35):
into the night. Gabriella, holding her light high, the better
to search the room for the pipe, and swallowing her
fears resolutely, turned slowly about and stopped. She thought she screamed,
but she made no sound. There was a man standing
behind her and smiling at her with an odd, sinister smile.

(31:58):
But it was not that alone that froze into terror
as cold as death, that held her motionless where she
stood like a woman of wood. It was that the
man was Tom. Well, what's the matter? Tom asked, slowly
and easily. His voice restored Gabriella to some part of
her senses, and she managed a sickly smile in return.

(32:21):
You frighten me, Gabriella answered, her heart still pomping violently
with a shock and with a sword of undefined uneasiness,
bread of the dark night and the howling wind and
her solitariness far up here in the lonely old house.
Tom had lighted the lamp. Sit down, he said, I

(32:42):
want to talk to you. Oh Tom, it's after ten,
Gabriella said, fluttering, well, what of it here? He pushed
an armchair for her, and Gabriella sat down in it
and blew out her candle. Tom opened the stove, dropped
wood and paper inside, and the wind in the chimney

(33:02):
caught at it instantly with a roar. I wanted to
talk to you, Tom added, without Sylvia or any of
the others around, They're always around. One of them would
be welcome now, Gabriella thought, in a sort of panic,
for Tom's face looked stern and strange, and there was
a rough sort of finality expressed in his manner that

(33:24):
was infinitely disquieting. She did not speak. She sat like
a watchful, bright eyed child, following his every word and
every movement. Tom would not hurt her Tom would not
kill her, said her frightened heart. Here's what I want
to know, Gabriella, he began abruptly, when he had taken

(33:46):
a chair close to her own. What's the idea you
know all about me? You can't keep up this stalling forever?
You know, stalling, Gabriella faltered, bluffing, you know what I mean,
The man elucidated shortly. I'm getting kind of tired of it,

(34:06):
he added, warming, I'm getting damn tired of it. You
know what I think about you? And you ought to
know that. I'm not the kind of man that lets
anybody else walk off with my property? Your mine? Ain't
you your mine? Tell me that His manner had grown
so alarming, so actually threatening, that Gabriella drew back a

(34:30):
little in her chair, and her great eyes were dilated
with a sort of terror as she answered lacatingly. You
you know I like you, Tom, Yes, and I've had
about enough of that sort of thing. Tom answered harshly,
I've had enough of that kind of of course. I
like you. Let me think about it. You can make

(34:50):
up your mind. Now you're going to marry me, and
soon too. I'm going to tell them all tomorrow morning,
and you and I'll go into Boston some day next
week and get married. And then when you want to
go off with some other man for the whole afternoon
and come back laughing and whispering, you can ask me

(35:10):
about it first. Why, Tom, Gabriella said, with a frightened smile.
You're not jealous, Yes I am. I'm damn jealous, he answered, roughly,
catching her wrist and drawing her to him without leaving
his seat. I want you. You've as good have said
you'd marry me a hundred times. I've got money enough

(35:33):
to give you everything in God's world you want. You
can't go back now on all you said. You can't
keep on bluffing and putting me off like a kid. Tom, Please,
The girl stammered, on her feet and trying to free
her hand. You never did this before. He stood up,
still holding tight to her wrist, and caught her in

(35:54):
the grip of an iron arm. No, he said, in
a low voice, I never did this before. But there's
no reason I shouldn't kiss my girl. What are you
afraid of? His big left hand gripped her cheeks, and
he turned her face up to his and kissed her
violently more than once. A dozen times. Gabriella, smothered, frightened

(36:19):
and struggling, pushed at his breast with all the strength
of her young arms. The opposition seemed to enrage Tom,
for he only held her tighter, his superior height as
well as strength, giving him all the advantage Tom, the
girl padded, I shall call call, he answered, easily and smiling,

(36:41):
and the wild scream of the winds whirling over the
high roofs of waste water seemed to echo the contemptuous
note of angry laughter in his voice. No, but Tom,
please please, Ah, Well that's better now you say, please
do you? Now you're not quite so cold, Tom muttered,

(37:03):
kissing her hair and forehead, and raising the two hands
he had caught tightly in one to kiss the fingertips.
Now you'll not be so cool, putting me off asking
for time. Huh, kiss me? Kay? You love me, don't you?
She would be out of it all tomorrow, safe with

(37:23):
the quiet nuns in Boston. Gabriella reminded herself if she
could but get away now down to lights and voices,
into the peace of her own room, and tomorrow away Tom.
I can't talk to you while you frighten me. So
why what are you afraid of? He asked, very slightly,

(37:43):
releasing her, his black eyes seeming to devour her, and
his breath in her face. I'm not going to hurt you.
I just wanted you to know that I'm tired of
your holding me off, of having you tell me that
of course you like me and all the rest of it.
You're going to marry me next week, aren't you, he

(38:03):
asked harshly. Gabriella held herself as far away from him
as the iron grip about her shoulders permitted, and rested
her hands perforce upon his shoulders. Tom, you will be ill,
she began, pleadingly. Cut that stuff out, he commanded, his
face darkening. You give me your word to marry me

(38:25):
next week, and I'll let you go. The convent tomorrow,
the safe bordered walks and walled gardens, the chapel, the refectory,
the quiet footsteps and pleasant voices. Tom, don't be angry
with me. Of course I will, of course I will,
if you'll not sneak to aunt Flora and say Tom

(38:47):
scared it out of you, and get David to talk
me off. The girl was silent, during a second in
which she sought words, but he saw the flicker of
self consciousness in her eyes, and instantly his fury returned again.
Promise me, as God is your judge, Swear it, he said,
in a low voice that shook with a passionate effort

(39:09):
at control. Swear it for I swear Isle. The rest
was lost. Gay was smothered in his arms again, her
whole body bent backward so that she staggered in the
struggle to keep her feet, her jaw caught in the
grip of his hard fingers, and her lips stinging and
burned and hurt under his kisses. The rich coil of

(39:32):
her hair was loosened and fell in a web upon
her shoulders, and through her choke throat and crushed mouth,
her voice came thickly, Tom, Tom, for God's sake, David,
And suddenly, above the wild envelopment of the wind, she
heard her name shouted in answer, Gabriela. The girl screamed

(39:54):
hysterically as the door was flung open, and the lamp
light swooped and flared in the gust from the hall,
and David, white and shaking came in. Then there was
a pause. Tom dropped his arms, and Gabriella crossed to David,
and quite automatically, and without moving his eyes from Tom,

(40:14):
David put his arm about her, and Gabriella laid one
hand upon his shoulder and hid her face wearily against
his breast and clung there as he had seen a
storm blown gull, cling to some chance found shelter, without moving,
without seeing, without sound. Tom stood beside the table, upon

(40:35):
which he rested one big knotted hand. His hair was
in disorder, his head hung forward menacingly, like the threatening
jowl of a bulldog. He was the first to speak, Well, Dave,
you can keep out of this, he said, in a slow,
measured voice. She's going to marry me. She promised me tonight,

(40:58):
didn't you, Gabriella, tell him so, tell him you promised me?
What's Tom's voice, under David's steady look, and opposed to
the strange silence in the storm bound room and the
strange and awful paleness of David's face, faltered slightly and
became less confident. What's the trouble? He said? Shall we

(41:21):
talk about this tomorrow? Tom? David said, in a constrained tone, No,
by God, we'll talk about it now, Tom answered, I
may be sick, or I may have been sick, for
that's more like it. But you've no need to talk
to me as if I were a baby. David, Gabriela
breathed against his breast. I'll not leave you, dear, he answered,

(41:45):
very low, his lips against the tawny hair. Tom, Ol boy,
Shall we go downstairs. We're all nervous and upset tonight.
I've got to talk to you. Tell him you're going
to marry me, gay, Tom said, savagely, without altering his
position or seeming to see David. No, Tom, David said,

(42:06):
strangely and sadly, you can't. I'm sorry, Tom, but you two,
you two, He went on, stammering and looking from Gay's
face to the other man's with infinite pity and distress.
You can't marry her, Tom, now or ever. I've I've
got something to tell you that will make a difference.

(42:27):
By God, you can't tell me anything that will make
a difference, Tom said, deep in his throat, still in
the same position, and without moving his eyes. You keep
your hands off her, Keep out of my affairs, David.
Don't be angry with him, Gabriela pleaded, don't be angry
with him. It's partly my fault. It's partly my fault

(42:51):
angry with him. David echoed, My dear Gay, Tom, you
mustn't be angry with me. And Flora just told me something. Tom.
Gay's father is not the man named Charpigner, as we
had all believed. Uncle Roger never knew it. But Gay
is your half sister, Tom born in the year after

(43:12):
you ran away, when he was hunting all over the
world for you. What are you talking about, Tom said
in a terrible voice. Gabriella, her face ashen in the lamplight,
was staring at David with dilated eyes. Now through her
parted lips, she breathed with utter horror. No, David, No,

(43:34):
it's true, David said, simply. There's a curse upon the place,
I think, and upon us all. It has killed them
one after the other. It is killing Aunt Flora, now Gay, Tom,
old fellow, we have to pay with the rest. You
must believe it, your brother and sister Tom. Then for

(43:56):
a long time there was silence in the room. Who
told you that? Tom asked then, in a sharp, sneering
voice that cut through the unbroken stillness and the surrounding
tumult of the storm. And instantly he added, in a
changed tone, look out for her, David, she's falling. Gabriela, indeed,

(44:17):
with a long, deep sob that ended with a sigh,
had pitched against his shoulder. David caught her in his arms.
Her eyes were shut and her whole body hung limp,
her beautiful tawny hair falling free. Help me get her downstairs, Tom,
David said, everything else forgotten, brushing the silky tawny tangled

(44:39):
from her face and taking her in a firmer hold.
Open the door. Tom slowly, and watching him as if
he were under some enchantment, moved to obey. The lamp
flared again, a blast of wind whined and sang about
the windows, and the casement burst open with a wild
shout of streaming air, extinguishing the light and careening loose

(45:03):
papers noisily about in the darkness. But Tom and David
neither saw nor cared. The opened hall door had shone.
The lonely passage outside lighted with a sickly pinkish glow
that flickered on the weather stained walls and sent lurching
shadows along the passage, above the creaking and crashing of

(45:23):
the hurricane, and the howling of the gale and the sea.
In the dark night, they could hear now a brisk
crackling and the devouring sound of red lips of flame.
The wind that instantly rushed upon them brought the acrid
taste of smoke, And even in their first stupefied look,
they saw a detached banner of fire blow loose far

(45:45):
down the long hallway toward the stairs, and twist on
the wind a moment like a blown handkerchief, and loose
itself in a thick, rolling plume of approaching smoke. Tom
slammed the door shut behind them. They were in the
hall fire. He shouted by God, the old places on fire.
End of chapter sixteen.