Brady The Island of the Stairs

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-944-4
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 203 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Excerpt: In order to safeguard the reputation of that worthy seaman and most gallant gentleman who writes this memoir, the editor thereof deems it proper to call attention to the fact that Master Hampdon has described accurately the Island of Mangaia of the Cook, or Hervey, group in the South Seas. It is still completely encircled by the unbroken barrier reef, over which the natives ride in their light canoes. The stairs still exist despite the earthquake to which Master Hampdon refers?and other upheavals which may have followed?and are still traversed by the feet of curious, if infrequent, visitors. For the rest, such altars and platforms as he and his little lady found still abound in the South Seas. Also on Easter Island, and on others, too, such statues of the grotesque and hideous ?Stone Goddes? as he describes may be seen. Who made them and why, as well as when they were put there, are as much mysteries today as they were when, in that far-off time, Master Hampdon and his lady sailed those then unknown seas in that brave little barque The Rose of Devon.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brady, Cyrus Townsend

Leseproben

BOOK I
WITHIN THE CASTLE WALLS
The Bequest of the Old Buccaneer
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN I BAIT THE LIVING OVER THE DEAD
I  CANNOT say that I was greatly surprised when I stumbled across the body of Sir Geoffrey in the spinney, which is not for a moment meant to convey the impression that I was not shocked. Many times before that morning in my long and adventurous life I had, as I have often since, seen many people die in all sorts of sudden and dreadful ways, in all parts of the globe, too. And in some cases where the sufferer was past hope and the suffering great, I have prayed for the good mercy of a quick end; but never, even under such circumstances, have I been able to look upon death philosophically, at least afterwards. The shock is always there. It always will be, I imagine; indeed I would not have it otherwise. I hope never to be indifferent to the passing of that strange mysterious thing we call life. But I digress. Truth to tell, I had expected that Sir Geoffrey would come to some such sad end, therefore, I repeat that I was not surprised; but as I stood over him in the gray dawn, looking down upon him lying so quietly on his back with the handsome, silver-mounted, ivory-handled dueling pistol, with which he had killed himself, still clasped in his right hand, I was fascinated with horror. I was younger then and not so accustomed to sudden death as I have become since so many years and so much hard service have passed over my head. And this was in a large measure a personal loss. At least I felt it so for Mistress Lucy’s sake, and for my own, too. Sir Geoffrey had been my ideal of the fine gentleman of his time. I liked him much. He had often honored me with notice and generally spoke me fair and pleasantly. In his situation some men would have blown out their brains—and there would have been a singular appositeness in the action in his case—but Sir Geoffrey had carefully put his bullet through his heart. It was less disfiguring and brutal, less hard on those left behind, less troublesome, more gentlemanly! I divined that was his thought. He was ever considerate in small matters. The red stain that had welled over the fine ruffled linen, otherwise spotless, of his shirt and the powder marks and burns still visible thereon in spite of the dried blood, all indicated clearly what had happened. The pistol was a short one, heavy in build, made for close work, else he could never have used it so effectively. For the rest, he was clad in his richest and best apparel. His sword lay underneath him, the diamond-studded hilt protruding. He must have fallen lightly, gently, I thought, because his body lay easily on its back and his dress was not greatly disturbed. I guessed that he was glad enough, after all, that the end had come, for his countenance had not that look of pain, or horror, or fear upon it, which I have so often seen on the face of the dead. His features were calm and composed. Evidently he had not been dead long. I remember the first thing I did was to reach down and gently close his eyes. I shall never forget them to my dying day. They were dreadfully staring. As I bent over him for this purpose I noticed that he had something in his left hand. That hand was resting lightly by the hilt of his sword as if he had stood with his left hand on his sword in that gallant defiant position which I had often enough seen him assume, when he pressed the trigger with his right hand. As he had fallen, his hand had been lifted a little away from the sword and in his fingers there was a paper. A nearer look showed it to be an envelope. I drew it away and, glancing at it, saw that it was addressed to Mistress Lucy. Thrusting it in the pocket of my coat, I rose to my feet. At that instant I heard steps and voices. Now I had nothing on earth to fear from anybody. The death of Sir Geoffrey was too obviously a suicide for anyone to accuse me, even if there had been any reason whatever for bringing me under suspicion. The letter which I carried in my pocket addressed to Mistress Lucy would undoubtedly explain everything there was to explain. Something, however, moved me to seek concealment. I am a sailor, as you will find out, and act quickly in an emergency by a sort of instinct. On the sea men have little time for reflection. The crisis is frequently upon one with little or no warning, and generally it must needs be met on the instant and without deliberation. Sir Geoffrey lay on the side of the path which ran through the spinney and beyond him the coppice thickened. The path twisted and turned. From the sound of the footsteps, I judged that men were coming along it. I instantly stepped across the body and concealed myself behind a tree trunk in the leafy foliage of the undergrowth. I could see without being seen, and hear as well. The approaching footsteps might belong to some of the gamekeepers, to a stray poacher, to some of the servants of the castle, or to someone who, like myself, had been abroad in the gray dawn and had been attracted to the spot by the sound of the shot, although they approached over leisurely for that. I was prepared for any of these things but I did not expect that any of the guests of the castle would make their appearance at that hour. The footsteps stopped. Two men, one of whom had been pointed out to me as Baron Luftdon in the lead followed by another who was strange to me, suddenly appeared. A voice which I recognized as the baron’s at once exclaimed in awe-struck tones: “By gad, he’s done it!” “Yes,” drawled the other, whose cold blooded calmness was in marked contrast with the unwonted excitement of the first speaker, “I rather expected it.” “Here’s a pretty affair,” said the first man. “Oh, I don’t know,” said the second indifferently, “it might be worse.” “Worse for him? Great heavens, man, he’s dead!” “Worse for us.” “What d’ ye mean? I don’t understand.” “Well, for instance, he might have shot himself before we—ah—plucked him.” “Oh, I see,” returned my lord with a rather askant glance at his companion, for which I almost respected him for the moment. The two stepped a little nearer. The first speaker, Lord Luftdon, one of the young bloods who had been having high carouse with Sir Geoffrey for the past week at the castle, bent over him. “There’s no doubt about his being dead, I suppose?” he asked after a brief inspection. “Good gad, no,” replied the second man with a contemptuous laugh. “Where are your wits, man? He must have held the muzzle of the pistol close to his breast. See how his shirt is burned and powder blackened. He must have died instantly.” “I suppose you are right.” “Well,” continued the drawler nonchalantly—as for me I hated them both but the latter speaker the more if possible, for reasons which you will presently understand—“this relieves me greatly.” “What do you mean?” “You are very stupid this morning, mon ami,” returned the other, gracefully taking a pinch of snuff and laughing again with that horrible indifference to the dead man who had been his host and friend. “After such a night as we had, to come thus suddenly upon—this—’tis enough to unsettle any man,” muttered Luftdon apologetically. “Pooh, pooh! man, you’re nervous.” “Well, I don’t know how it relieves you. And after all’s said and done, Wilberforce was a gentleman, a good player and a gallant loser, and I liked him.” “Exactly, I liked him too, well enough. And he lost his all like a gentleman.” “And you got it, at least most of it.” “Patience, my friend, you had your share, you know,” returned the other with his damnable composure. “I don’t know but I’d give it back to have poor old Geoff with us once again,” retorted Luftdon with some heat. “That is a perfectly foolish statement, my buck,” returned the other, philosophically taking snuff. “Somebody was bound to get it; Wilberforce has been going the pace for years; we happened to be in at the death, that’s all.” “Well, how does it relieve you, then? Do you think Wilberforce would have attempted to get you to support him?” The drawler laughed. “Of course not, this”—he pointed to the dead body—“is proof enough of the spirit that was in him; but of course, I cannot marry the girl now.” “You can’t?” “Certainly not. Her father a bankrupt and a suicide—” “But the castle and this park?” “Mortgaged up to the hilt. Speaking of hilts—” he stooped down and daintily avoiding contact with the corpse, drew from the scabbard the diamond-hilted sword—“this belongs to me. It’s worth taking. You remember he staked it last night on the last deal.” “Good God, man,” protested the first speaker, “don’t take the man’s sword away. Let him lie with his weapons like a gentleman.” “Tut, tut, you grow scrupulous, it seems. We will provide him a cheaper badge of his knighthood, if necessary,” returned the other lightly. “And about the girl?” “’Tis all off.” “You will have some trouble breaking your engagement with her, I am thinking.” “Not I. To do her justice, the wench has the spirit of her father. A whisper that I am—er—disinclined to the match will be quite sufficient.” “Aye, but who will give her that whisper?” “We will arrange that some way. Truth to tell, I am rather tired of the minx, she...