THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3774, 13 July 1926, Page 81

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

By F. Frankfort Moore.

( Copyright.—For the Witness.) I. Edmund Raddiffe’s studio-bad been one of the eighteenth century garden houses of Wealdlands, when the estate had flourished in its entirety. That was before Sir Guy, the gambler, had sold its most saleable portions for the meagre benefit of his countless creditors —no one had ever tried to count them. It was some hundreds of yards away from the Manor house, and contained three rooms in addition to the central studio, a six-sided apartment with a domed roof, whose walls were made splendid with tapestry panels —not so brilliant as they had once been—hunting horns, and a hunting knife or two, with carved ivory hafts and jewelled sheaths, and the usual unusual artistic triA that are picked up by a man of taste who has the means of gratifying it. It was, people said, consistent with his pose of eccentricity that Mr Radcliffe should make the garden house his home rather than the Manor house, where his sister lived with their maternal uncle, who had been their guardian since the death of their parents, when Edmund and Bertha had been children. Mr Talbot was a widower and without children of his own. To him Bertha had always been devoted; the sole object of her brother’s devotion was his art. He had studied painting, in many schools, chiefly the grotesque. People suggested that he v had been 60 impressed by the ease with which the exponents of certain styles of geometrical drawing, as applied to the interpretation of Nature, had attained notoriety, that he had determined, by going beyond them, to make a name for himself, even at the sacrifice of all that had hitherto been regarded m legitimate in hia art. He had

at one time been reckoned a colourist of promise, and his name had appeared in the catalogues of more than one exhibition; but within recent years he had done nothing, except what was absurd in conception and extravagant in execution. The general idea in circles where opinion, with, out being asked for, is generously given, was that it was lucky for Mr Radclifle that he was already well off as regards earthly goods, for there ws no chance of his store being materially increased by the unearthly products of what he called art. When this criticism was conveyed to him he had smiled. He had for some time been-cul-tivating the smile of Mona Lisa, which is possibly the most enigmatical expression that the world has yet known. Nothing that anyone said about him or his ways had any marked effect upon him; he did not even complain with any extravagant bitterness when the models for his pictures began to ask for bonuses, on the plea that his treatment of them pictorially deserved extra remuneration. The models did not mind Mr Radcliffe punching their features in his canvas out of all recognition to anything human ; but they wanted to be paid for his practising on them. He paid them with no more than a murmur. Some people in the select art circles in the neighbouring town of Dymchester were ready to remark that Mr Radcliffe was fortunate in getting Captain Bristowe to sit to him for his new picture. But when they went on to talk of Captain Radcliffe also being fortunate, they made it clearly understood that they were doing so, not in regard to the picture that was threatened, but in regard to the promise which he hoped to get some day from the lips of Bertha Radcliffe. To find favour in the ejes of a beautiful and well-endowed girl, * such as Bertha undoubtedly was, should be accounted more than equivalent for whatever treatment his features might receive in their transference to the canvas by the young woman’s brother. Captain Bristowe had really been quite cheerful about his sittings to Mr Radcliffe; and though, when the suggestion that he should sit had first been made by Edmund, Bertha had frowned and shaken her heaa deprecatinglv, yet before long she began to appreciate the sessions. To be sure, the studio was a considerable distance from the house, but, being a garden enthusiast, she felt that it was quite likely that she might in the course of the summer have some opportunities of converting Captain Bristowe to her views regarding the English Formal Garden. As things turned out, her ambition on this point was fully realised. Rarely, when any of the sittings was over, had Geoffrey Bristowe to go direct to the Deanery—his father was Dean of Dymchester, Bertha was devoted to her garden, and she had found that Geoffrey, in the course of his travels, had been for a whole week in Japan, and was thus fully qualified to give her some valuable assistance in the construction of a Japanese garden. When one lovely August night Bertha re-entered the drawing room of the manor house by the French window, after sitting by the side of her lover, watching the white moths. fluttering about the sweet-scened flowers of the tobacco plants, she knew that she felt happier than she had ever done in all her life before. Her guardian, Mr Talbot, came quickly into the room from the library beyond. As he was about to switch on the light she cried out softly: “ Don't do that, dear. I have something to say to you that I think I can say more easily in this lovely twilight. Uncle, Geoffrey Bristowe has told me that he loves me, and I have promised to marry him.” She thought that he was going to fall when she had spoken. He reached the chair toward which he staggered and dropped into the seat. She was beside him in a moment. “ I should have remembered all that a daughter should remember. You have been more than a father to me. But don’t think that this shall separate us, dearest. I shall always be at hand. Geoffrey has been appointed Lord Dymchester’s agent. I shall be near you always.” There was a long silence. She got slowly to her feet. She was frightened. Why could he not speak? “ Speak to me, uncle,” she cried. “My poor cliiid—God pity you! ” he faltered. “ What do you mean ? ” she said. “God pity—when I have just known what is God’s best gift ? ” “ I knew that it must come some day,” lie said, “but I put off the evil day as long as I could —too long! I was a coward, and you —God help us both! ” “ Uncle, I do not know what you mean.” “I cannot tell you. Why was it laid on me to tear you away from the happiness that—that—oh, it should be yours —it shall be yours.” “ You shall tell me all that you know you should tell me. I shall not go to iny bed this night without hearing from you all that I should hear. Have wo lived together all these years without your learning that I fear nothing so long as it is the truth? I stand bpfore you now and entreat you —command you — that is ray word—command! ” “Hush, Bertha! You do not know wliat it is you ask?’ “No; but I soon shall. It may be bitter as death; but it cannot be bitterer than the suspense for which you are responsible. Speak—speak! ” He bowed his face to his hands. She felt that he was praying. And she was right. He had spoken, and she was lying on the floor at his feet, not weeping, not swoening, only calling on death to come to her, as Bhe had heard one of the soldiers whom she had nursed crying out when overwhelmed by the agony of an awful hour.

ii. It was at a quarter to 12 o’clock the next day that Bertha Radcliffe tried the door of her brother’s studio, and found it, as she expected it would be, locked. He always absented himself while his rooms were being attended to by the wife of the head gardener early in the day. Bertha had borrowed the woman’s key, and with it she unlocked the door and entered the building. There it was before her on one of the easles —the portrait of her lover. It was almost finished, and, seeing it for the first time, she was surprised to find that it bore no token of that extravagance of design and colour which Edmund had recently affected. She had not been greatly interested in the work until recently, but she had gathered from some remarks of her brother in conversation w'ith Captain Bristowe that the subject had something to do with the French Revolution. Geoffrey sat in the costume of a Royalist, and those incidental details were completed; but only the most meagre suggestions of a definite expression ware conveyed by the treatment of the face. It was plain that her brother was meaning to deal with the expression at some later sittings. But it was enough for Bertha to know that that was to be the portrait of the man whom she loved. She threw herself on her knees before the picture. “My beloved! How can 1 part from you for ever?” she cried. “Will you be as other men who can so easily forget ? What is life without hope? For us there is no hope.” A knock came to the door. Going to the door, she admitted, not the one whom she expected, but her uncle. “I followed you here,” he said. “Have you come to tell Edmund?” “No; I have come to tell Geoffrey that I cannot marry him.” “My poor child!” He took some steps away from her, with bent head. Suddenly he straightened himself. “Listen to me, Bertha,” he said. “Why should you not let the secret remain a secret? I do not suppose that there are half a dozen people still alive who would you with what happened more than 20 years ago.” “Do not tempt me,” she cried, in a voice full of bitterness. “Can you think it possible that I should do such an injustice to the man I love as to allow him to link his life with mine? And not his life only—do you think that I have forgotten the words of that curse —‘unto the third and fourth generation?’Oh, I should be vile if I were to marry him.” “But if he should be willing to run the risk?” “I will not listen to you. I tell you I would kill myself rather than—-” He clutched her by the arm. “Do not say those words,” he whispered. “They have a terrible signmcance to me, knowing all that I know\” “What, he killed himself? You did not tell me that.” “He killed himself a year after he had killed her.” “And, knowing that, you ask me—” she began. But he heard the sound of a step outside the door, and again laid his hand on her arm. The door opened and her brother entered. He looked from one to the other with amused surprise. “For what am I indebted for this visit?” he said. “I don’t think that you have been here half-a-dozen times since the days when you lectured me about my colouring. All, I perceive—” he glanced at the portrait with a knowing smile. “I must be off,” said Mr Talbot, assuming as best he could an ordinary tone. “Come up to the house for lunch, if you can, after the sitting is over, Edmund.” He hurried away. “Bristowe not here yet ?” said Edmund. “Oh, like all the rest of you, he looks on ' painting as a mere pastime.” “Have I not always taken an interest in your work. Edmund?” “What else is there in the world that is worth a moment’s devotion ?” he cried. “My art is everything to me! I would make any sacrifice for it!” “You have already sacrificed much for it,” she said. “You came to see the picture, 1 suppose?” “Yes; it is in your old style. I believe it will be a good picture.” “Good? Good? It will, I promise you, be a picture that will cause a stir in the world. It will be more talked about than any picture that has been painted within the memory of man.” “Let us hope so. Poor Geoffrey!” “Poor Geoffrey! Don’t be a I promise you that he will become faffius by this picture—that his name will be on the lips of everyone.” He went to where his palate was lying, and began to squeeze out the colour tubes. She watched him in silence. “Edmund,” she said at last, “have you never had an interest to see a portrait of our father or our mother—to hear something about them—where they lived—where they died—how they died?” “My dear Bertha, I cannot pretend to take a sentimental interest in our parents, considering that I have not the faintest recollection of seeing either. I tell you my art has become more to me than father or mother—yes, or even sister. Forgive me if I seem rude.” “Oh, Edmund, thank heaven that you have no desire to learn anything that our uncle might be able to tell you!”

“Make your mind easy. I’m not inquisitive,” said he. “Now, what can be keeping Bristowe? He was to be here at nooh?” “It is barely noon,” she said. “I came early. I wish to have an interview alone with Captain Bristowe, when he arrives. You will grant me this favour ?” “No; every moment is precious!” he cried. “To think of men and women giving up their lives to marrying, becoming the parents of dull children, when the Kingdom of Art is at hand!” “You will leave us together for half an hour—less—it will not take me half an hour. Edmund, you must!” said she entreatingly. “If you mean half an hour only, I do nqt mind,” he said, in a tone of irritation. “But I shall return in half an hour exactly. Here he comes, at last.” Geoffrey Bristowe entered tne studio, and Edmund picked up his own hat and went to the door. “You are late,” he said, without further greeting of Geoffrey. “Bertha will not let us begin our work, late or not. I have promised her half an hour.” He banged the door behind him. Geoffrey laughed. “A funny man, that brother of yours, my dear!” said he. “But he has my blessing for this half-hour. My darling!” He took her hand and looked into her face. “What is this?” he said. “My beloved! what has happened to change you since we parted with such joyous words last night? Bertha, thy love!” The hand that he grasped had the limpness of death. She withdrew it from his clasp, and it seemed to drop lifeless by her side. She tried to speak, but failed. “Bertha, dearest, I am here,” he said soothingly. “What can b 3 WTong when we are together?” Her lips moved. With 'X cry she made a move away from him. She stumbled and would have fallen if he had not caught her in his arms. “Now, dear, you can tell me all that you have to tell,” he whispered. “I cannot,” she said. “I fancied that I was strong enough—God help me! I cannot.” She sprang away from him. “Geoffrey, you must trust me,” she said. “You must not ask me to explain anything except the one thing—we are parted—for ever!” “Nonsense!” he said. “Parted? I suppose you mean that your guardian has refused to consent to our engagement.” “No, no. Oh, I cannot tell you! Geoffrey, you must trust me.” “Bertha, will you tell me that you no longer love me?” he said, in a low tone. “Do not force me to lie to you,” she cried almost piteously. “You love me; I love you. Nothing is changed. Our love is all that matters. You have asked me to trust you,” he said, “Why cannot you trust me, Bertha? Why should you refuse to tell me—?” “God help me! I can tell you nothing!” she cried. “Geoffrey, it is too terrible! Oh, I cannot stay here before you, simply repeating the words. ‘We have parted for ever!’ I must go.” She moved towards the door. “You must not go. I refuse to allow you to go before telling me whatever there is to be told.” “Oh, Geoffrey, my love, I implore you ” “Stop!” he shouted. He had a hand on each of her arms. There was a long silence. He dropped her arms as if lie were flinging her away from him. “Go, if you wish to go,” he said in a level voice. “Forgive me. Who am 1 that I should hold you here?” He turned away from her. “I am going,” she said. “If I cannot bring you happiness, I can at least save you from misery. Thank heaven, I am strong enough to do it! Thank heaven! ” He did not look round. He heard the door close. He was alone. Edmund Radcliffe was smiling as he looked at Geoffrey, standing blankly in the middle of the room. He did not seem to have noticed the entrance of Edmund. “Well, I trust you have had a satisfactory interview',” said the painter. “A good deal can be said in half an hour.” “A good deal,” muttered Geoffrey. He strolled toward the model’s chair. When about to seat himself, he seemed to recover from his abstraction. He picked up his hat, saying: “Radcliffe, I can’t sit to you to-day— I may not be able to sit to you again.” Edmund threw down his sheaf of brushes, crying: “What are you saying. You cannot treat me in this way! I could not finish the picture if you desert me. You promised—a promise is a promise—sacred! ” “Is it indeed?” muttered Geoffrey. “Listen to me,” said Edmund. “I have staked all upon this picture. You do not know what it means to me, or you would not talk of throwing me over. Why, even now I can see what it will be. There is a look of suffering on your face that was never there before. That is the expression I i^ant.” “Buffering—! I should think there was a look of suffering.” But while he spoke there came a new expression to his face. It flashed upon him tjiftt Bertha’s brother should be able to throw some light upon the mystery of her attitude to him.

“Well, I shall give you an hour today,” he sa id. “I knew you would listen to reason,” said Edmund, brightening up. “I told you what this picture will be. IVhen it is firfished I shall be indifferent to *all that Fate may have in store for me. I shall feel that I have done ray W'ork in the world. Now, let me catch that recent expression. How the mischiet can I do it if you keep your eyes on the floor ?” Geoffrey looked up, and the painter w r ent eagerly to liis canvas. Before he had done much, Geoffrey said: “By the way, your 6ister had ratner a startling communication to make to me. I wonder if she hinted at it to you.” “We w’ere only together for a few minutes,” said Edmund. “She talked something .bout the sacrifice I had made for my art. And what W’as her criticism of this picture, do you fancy? After congratulating me on my return to my early style, I heard her murmur, as she glanced at it, ‘Poor Geoffrey!’” “She said that? And did you ask her what she meant?” “Not I. But I took care to tell her the truth—that when this picture is completed, your name shall become immortal. That is the truth! . ‘Poor Geoffrey,’ indeed.” » He gave a little laugh, and painted aw jfpy rapidly, enthusiastically, and in silence for a long time. Geoffrey perceived that Bertha had not made a confidant of her brother. He was lost in his own thoughts until lie heard Edmund say: “That is as far as I can go until I get at the hands. I told you that the man—the Royalist Barrand—was bound. Yes, you gave me a sitting for the arms with the rope thrown over them; one more will be enough, I think. I’m sorry to bother you; but your arms must be bared and bound as before. Where did I lay the rope? Ah, here it is. Tell me if I am drawing it too tight for your comfort. You w'on’t mind for a quarter of an hour, will you? Lay your left along the arm of the chair. It should not be a padded chair; but that doesn’t matter.” He was binding the rope as he had done once before, about Geoffrey’s arms, but Geoffrey seemed to be indifferent to the compression. Only once, when Edmund passed the end of the rope about both legs and drew’ it taut, did he open his mouth. “You didn’t bind my legs last time, and if you must do it now, you needn’t do it so as to cut into my flesh,” he said. “Sorry,” muttered Edmund. “But the fellow was not given a chance, and I do not mean to give you a chance. Marat tied him up wli lie w’as to bled to death, and watched the process.” Then, having made the last knot, he took a step back, viewing his handiwork. Geoffrey had been very submissive. He was not thinking of the French Revolution. Only once, when his arms were being bound, did he cease to think what his next step should be in regard to Bertha, for he recalled the game of Red Indians, which he had played in his boyhood. But now he felt the rope chafing his wrists and gave a little, pained frown. “A bit too tight, Radcliffe,” he muttered. “And now' my hour has come!” cried Edmund exultantly. Geoffrey was startled by the tone of his voice. He was still more startled wdien he saw the expression on the man’s face as he crossed the studio to where the old French hunting knives w'ere hanging, and unsheathed one of them. “You needn’t cut the rope,” said Geoffrey, “only slacken it by an inch or two.” “I winder, my friend, if you ever heard of Parrhasius,” said the painter, cofning close to him. “He was the greatest artist that ever lived. He had a man tortured to death so that he might depict his agony. When I read the account of it long ago I knelt down and sw'ore that I w r ould become as true an artist as Parrhasius, and at last my hour has come! My name shall be as immortal as his, and your name—” “For God’s sake, Radcliffe, stop that play-acting!” said Geoffrey, trying to conceal the shock that the expression on the other’s face gave him. “Cut out the heroics for the present. I’m not particularly comfortable here.” Edmund confronted him with the naked knife, and when he raised it, Geoffrey saw that it was a madman w'lio was before him. He shouted for “help, help, help!” but kept his eyes on the weapon, and when the madman made his thrust he managed to jerk the chair a few inches to one side, so that the blade was evaded by a little less than its own breadth; and again his cry for “help, help, help!” rang out. He w'atched for the next thrust of the knife, and as it came he jerked his head forward to the man’s arm and the next instant he found himself grasping the man’s wrist with his own hand, bound though it w r ns by the rope. The man made a frantic effort to free himself, and again Geoffrey shouted and shouted, but maintained his hold. The man ceased to struggle. Geoffrey saw that what he was aiming at was to transfer the weapon to his free hand. Once more Geoffrey threw his head violently forward, and the knife went from the other’s grasp to the floor, just

as it was being successfully transferred. The clang of its fall sounded at the same second as a cry from without, and the rattling of the handle of the door. In another instant Bertha was In the studio. “Oh, God! what has happened, what has happened?” she cried. “The knife, the knife, on the floor,” gasped Geoffrey. “Cut the rope—quick —quick!” She rushed for it. It was sharp as a razor. It bit through the double coils of the light rope and Geoffrey’s right arm was free. Then he took it from her and freed his left, and disentangled his legs. Edmund turned upon her. “Why did you come here ?” he shrieked. His was the shriek of a maniac. “You know what you have done! You have deprived him of the immortality that should have been his! Oh, you are a fool! You are mad—you are both mad—blind and mad! to let such a chance pass by!” He W'ent to the door, staring back at them, his lips moving convulsively. There was an appalling silence. Geoffrey, now you know ‘the truth, the tiling that stands between us forever,” she said in a whisper. “The truth ?” “The terrible truth. He is a maniac, and I, God help me am his sister. Our father killed his wife, and then took his own life. You know the words of the curse—-‘unto the third and fourth generations.’ ” He looked at her; then, with a cry he raised his hands above his head and fell at her feet, overwhelmed by the culminating horrors of the hour.*