The foregoing chapters which embody1 the story of Slade’s career, were, as I have said before, intended for the perusal2 of Roy Blakeley alone. They form, as you will have seen, a sort of story within a story. What went before, and what I am now about to write, would never have been written (much less published) save for the startling discoveries which I have recently made. As I feel now, I should like not only Roy Blakeley, but the whole world, to know the full truth of this strange business.
You will have noticed, no doubt, that in my somewhat rambling3 story of Slade’s career I refrained from mentioning the shocking revelations that were contained in the papers which I found in the Scuppers. To me (who did not know him), the death of the brave airman was not so much of a shock, but that he should have sold himself and his undoubted talents to the enemy while all the while keeping up the appearance of loyal service to the United States, was appalling—almost unbelievable. When and how, in those latter days of his brave career, he had played into their blood-guilty hands, I could not conjecture4. But that is the wily genius of spies and traitors5.
I tried to make allowance for him on the supposition that his mind had been polluted, his vision knocked askew6, away back home by the disloyal German by whom he had been employed. I told myself that though he was brave, he was yet ignorant and weak, perhaps.
They had sent him into the enemy country partly because he had, in some measure, the German type of countenance7 and spoke8 German passably. Was there some obscure vein9 of German running in him, I asked myself. That might explain, though it would not excuse. He had spoken in blunt praise of his German captors and had come near to being court-martialled for it. Was that just common fairness to certain Germans in a particular instance? Or did it show the bent10 of his mind? It almost made me sick to think about it. And I felt guilty to be perpetuating11 his reckless courage for the benefit of the boy who had believed in him and still revered12 his memory.
It is enough for me to say now that I shall write the balance of this story with a clearer conscience.
Perhaps you will say that I should have come to believe in him when I learned of his brave, heroic acts. But I beg you to remember the watch, with T. S. engraved13 on the back of it, and the wallet packed full of treason which was connected with it by a heavy lock-link chain. You remember that? You remember that the watch was made in America? You remember that in that wallet was the photograph of a Bridgeboro girl? Bridgeboro, only a small place too, where he had lived and where I lived, and where Roy lived. You remember the part of that girl’s letter on the back of which was written a traitorous14 memorandum15? Here it is now—I copy it:
... looked about it seemed as if everyone in Bridgeboro was there. And of course the Boy Scouts16 and that excruciating imp17 of a Blakeley boy were on hand—Ruth’s brother, you know. Oh, by the way, who do you suppose is in the old place on Terrace Ave? Guess. The Red Cross ladies, and I’m working with
Heaven knows how many times in my mind I afterward18 tried to wrench19 that chain asunder20 and separate that name from the mementoes of treachery and crime, just as I had actually tried in my amazement21 and bewilderment as I sat in that little dank cave away up in the Scuppers where he had fallen.
But in the end of it this was the sad conclusion that I reached—that brave and heroic exploits may be colored and exaggerated by those who tell them, but that records kept in secret do not lie. And if I did not picture the adventurous22 young American as a patriot23 in those gathered reminiscences of his career, it was because I could not, for the haunting thought of some unknown, dark activities of his were always in my mind, a stalking spectre. Yet not a hint did I give to Archer24 even, much less to Roy, of what I had found out.
But there were one or two things which often puzzled me in the writing of those chapters for Roy and I will mention these now. One was that Archer told me Slade had no use for girls and never received letters from them. Yet here was a very friendly, companionable letter, or part of one, at least. Perhaps that is of no importance.
But this Bridgeboro girl had said in her letter that that extraordinary imp of a Blakeley boy was on hand—Ruth’s brother. Did not Tom Slade know that Roy was Ruth Blakeley’s brother, without her saying that? Could she have supposed that he did not know who Roy was?
I thought about it a good deal and I did not cease to think of it until a certain trouble of my own intervened and put all thoughts of Tom Slade out of my mind for the time. This was the very troublesome cough I had contracted as a result of being gassed. I could not seem to get the gas out of my lungs, and it was becoming a matter of concern to me. I have seen young fellows, recovered from the immediate25, acute effects of gassing, go to the wall with consumption. So when the doctors in Paris told me that a change of air would be my best physician I lost no time in seeking the mountains of Switzerland. I may mention, if you care to know it, that I am now quite recovered and that with returning strength there came to me a great light which brought me happiness and peace of mind.
Of this I must now tell you.
The little hamlet of St. Craix is about thirty miles south of Basel in a jumble26 of mountains which anywhere else but in Switzerland would require a couple of hundred square miles to stand in. Solothurn is the nearest place of any size but not exactly near enough to be neighborly, and the great Ramieux Mountain rears its mighty27 bulk to the north. Some twenty odd miles to the west is France, but I should say it would be a couple of hundred million miles, more or less, if you went over the mountains. From Ramieux Mountain I think you could slide down to Vetroz, get lunch, and then slide on down and catch the train at Delemont.
My host, Hans Twann, had his little hostelry on the side of Meiden Mountain, a mere28 hubble of a couple of thousand feet or so, and his orchard29 tilted30 up like a picture on an easel. With the apples that grew in this orchard he made cider, and he also made Kirschwasser, a very agreeable beverage31 notwithstanding its formidable name.
He accommodated tourists on the side, in more ways than one, since his land was all up and down, and from a distance his quaint32 little place must have looked as if it were fixed33 like a postage stamp against the rising wall of the mountain. What kept it there I cannot for the life of me tell you. I always felt safer in back of it for then, if the worst happened, I should fall down against it and stop. There was a little odd patch of level land here, too, and he utilized34 it for an arbor35 where I used to sit.
Here Herr Twann would often join me and I would banter36 him about the insignificant37 size of his country. “Ach,” he would say, “dat iss becauss it iss all crunched38 up—what? Like a piece of trash paper. Spread it out flat and it iss bigger dan your United States.” There was some force to this argument.
Herr Twann and his little household talked German among themselves, like most of the inhabitants of northern Switzerland, though they all spoke a sort of English which they had picked up from the many tourists who resorted to the funny little place before the war.
His two children, Egbert and Emmie, were my particular friends and many were the Alpine39 rambles40 that we had together. They were about ten and eleven respectively, I think, the girl being the younger. Often we would go down into St. Craix, the oddest little community you would wish to see, with its little spired41 chapel42 just like a church in a toy village.
It was upon the Sunday of my first attendance at this church that something happened which greatly distressed43 me. It all grew out of the mischievous44 banter of those children. When the service was over they showed me the relics45 (of the sort that any church in Switzerland has), hallowed mementoes of saints and martyrs46, and I hope I showed a seemly reverence47 for them. As we left the hamlet they led me to a window of the little schoolhouse and showed me within a skull48 which they said had been found in a glacier49.
“Now,” said I, “if you will show me the apple that William Tell shot from his son’s head, I shall have seen all the sights.”
“We will show you the gray meteor,” they said. “You know what dat meteor iss?”
They laughed and said I should see what kind of a rock this “gray meteor” was.
After we had walked some distance they began looking eagerly across a certain field at the farther side of which a mountain arose. Right at the base of this mountain was a kind of grove51. Their laughing voices echoed back from the rugged52 height as we entered the field, and sounded clear and musical in the quiet calm of that Alpine Sabbath morn.
“Come,” they urged.
As we neared the foot of the mountain the irregular contour of the base developed into little rocks and caves, and then I saw emerging from one of these a living figure which paused irresolutely53, watching us.
“See—now you are fooled!” little Emmie cried. “You are so sure it iss a rock!”
“You mean that is the meteor?” I asked.
“So—you are fooled!” she answered gleefully.
As we approached closer, I could see the figure clearly, and a more forlorn and pitiable spectacle I have never gazed upon. Seeing me, he started to run, but thinking better of it, paused and waited for us with an aspect of indescribable terror. I wore the regulation khaki uniform of correspondents at the front, and this he seemed to scrutinize54 with a kind of bewildered agitation55.
“Hello,” I said, as we reached what I suppose I must call his lair56. “How are you this bright Sunday morning?”
He made no answer, but watched me furtively57 and once or twice seemed on the point of making off. It was evident that he either lived or spent much time in a little cave formed by the rocks for near this were the charred58 remnants of a fire. He was a young fellow of perhaps twenty, with blond, disordered hair, and blue eyes, which latter feature disconcerted me greatly for they bespoke59 a kind of breathing suspense60, entirely61 unwarranted by our innocent intrusion. His cheekbones were very noticeable, he looked thin and ill-nourished, and the end of his mouth twitched62 distressingly63.
As to his apparel, it was in the last stages of shabbiness. His trousers were, I dare say, of khaki, but they hung loose and looked ridiculous in the absence of accompanying puttees. He wore the coat of a German officer (of what rank or branch of service I could not say) and to complete his grotesque64 appearance, he had a compass hung on a cord around his neck which dangled65 upon his chest like a lady’s ornament66.
“Well, how do you find yourself?” I repeated at a venture, for I did not know whether or not he spoke English. He looked at me for a few seconds, picked up a stick and then began to cry.
Seeing that no exchange of communication was possible between us, and feeling that my intrusion was chiefly responsible for his agitation, I told my little friends that we had better go. They seemed delighted to have exhibited this creature to me.
“I think we should not laugh at him,” I said, as we resumed our homeward way. “His brain is evidently not right and he is sick. Why do you call him the gray meteor?”
“Is he not gray—his coat?” piped up young Egbert.
“Yes, but—meteor.”
“Ach, he come nobody know where—like out of the sky.”
As I looked back I could see the poor creature kneeling over his charred fire rubbing one stick across another so that it looked as if he were playing a violin.
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1
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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spired
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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46
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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47
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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48
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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51
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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52
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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54
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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58
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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