UNKNOWN
Brent made many more trips from Marchton to Canada and back again, and
each time he had no good news to bring the people waiting so eagerly for
a word of encouragement. Gale had disappeared as neatly as if the earth
had opened and swallowed her. The wreckage of his plane had been removed
from the spot where he had crashed and there remained now only a few
trees whose bark had been scraped off by the falling plane to mark the
spot. He had visited every nearby farmhouse and personally inquired for
news of Gale. To all his efforts he had received the same
result—nothing. But Brent was nothing if not dauntless. Not for nothing
had he flown thousands of miles, in sun and storm. He had gained a
courage and determination scarcely to be equalled. Now he could put his
determination to good use. He needed it all to keep him from giving up
the search. Give up? He could not! He meant to find Gale. How or where
he did not know, but he would find her. He had to. He had learned a lot
of things since that night by the hangar when he and Gale had exchanged
confidences. He certainly could not give up now when he did not know
what had happened to her. Day after day he visited the French towns and
farms in the surrounding country.
“Do you think you will ever find her?” Phyllis asked him wearily on his
next trip to Marchton.
He smiled confidently, much more confidently than he felt. “Of course.
You know the saying—‘There’ll come a day.’”
“But it seems so hopeless now—after all this time!” Phyllis said.
“Sometimes I think——”
Brent smiled at her, his light quizzical smile. “You are really fond of
Gale, aren’t you?”
Phyllis nodded, a lump in her throat so that she could not speak.
“So am I,” Brent said, his eyes on the automobiles passing in the
street. “I won’t give up until I find her.”
Phyllis pressed his arm. “I hope you find her—truly I do. I know she
likes you—a lot.”
Brent smiled upon her again. “You make me feel a lot better,” he said.
“I really needed some cheering up—more than I would admit.”
Soon after that he was off for Canada again. At first he went to the
hotel in Quebec where he had made his headquarters. There was no mail
for him nor any word of Gale. He went down to the street and found the
car and chauffeur he had hired until his shoulder should be well enough
for him to drive himself. He directed the man to drive north. He had no
specific destination, he proposed to merely drive through the northern
roads again in the hopes of meeting someone or finding something that
would lead to Gale.
It was late in the afternoon when they came to a small French village
where they stopped for the luncheon they had missed. The chauffeur had
much more of an appetite than Brent and while he waited for the man
Brent decided to explore the little village. The streets were quaint and
expressed the simplicity and charm of the inhabitants. He turned from
the contemplation of an old Frenchman, who was sunning himself in the
doorway of his home, to look at two girls making their way out of town.
Their arms were laden with bundles and a small collie scooted ahead in
front of them. But Brent had eyes merely for one of the girls. Was it
possible? He passed a dazed hand across his eyes. Could he be mistaken?
“Gale!” he called. Did he fancy that the girls hesitated for a moment
and then went on? He called again but they did not turn. Starting after
them he reached the turn in the road just in time to see the girls climb
into a farmer’s wagon and the wagon start off down the road.
Brent went back to the old Frenchman and asked him if he knew the girls.
In these small towns nearly everybody knew everybody else.
“It is François Bouchard’s sister,” the old man nodded. “She lives with
her brother on a small farm east of the village.”
“And the other girl?” Brent asked.
“I do not know, Monsieur.”
That was that Brent decided. He would have no rest now until he learned
if the girl really was Gale. Certainly the likeness had been
astonishing. The girl had seemed in the height of gay spirits. But if it
really had been Gale, well and strong as this girl, wouldn’t she have
sent word to her parents? Tried to get back home? He rumpled his hair in
perplexity and replaced his hat. He would start after them and ask
questions. He might discover something. But when he returned to the inn
where he had left his chauffeur, the man was gone. For an hour Brent
fumed in impatience until the man finally reappeared. To all Brent’s
upbraidings the man turned a deaf ear. He merely climbed into the car
and sat waiting. Without further waste of time Brent climbed in beside
him and, having secured directions from the old man, set off in the
direction of Bouchard’s cottage.
The car bumped along over ruts hidden by the snow and ice. The driver
might just as well not have been present for all the company he was to
Brent. He uttered not one word from the time they left the village,
replying to all Brent’s attempts at conversation with grunts. Brent had
always thought the French-Canadians friendly, sociable people, but this
man irked him. Soon he forgot his companion, however, forgot about the
uncomfortable car in which he rode and which jolted his shoulder,
causing it to pain him, and concentrated on the object of his search.
For days, weeks, he had been traveling, seeking some touch, some clue to
the whereabouts of Gale. Yet not three hours before he had seen her,
apparently well and happy. There must be some explanation!
His musings were brought to a sudden halt and he was thrown so far
forward as to almost bump his nose on the windshield. Brent could speak
fluent French and he used it to good advantage. He poured a tirade out
on the head of the driver. The man merely gestured to the trees and the
end of the road to which they had come. Brent had to see that it was
impossible for the car to go any farther.
The driver signified his intention to remain in the car by slumping down
in the seat and pulling his cap over his eyes for a quiet nap.
In disgust Brent jumped out and started to tramp across the road and
into the clump of trees, stripped now of all autumnal glory and black
with the cold of early winter. The snow lay in deep drifts in several
places and these Brent avoided to the best of his ability. He hoped he
was still going in the right direction. That driver was as good as
nothing. He had assured Brent he had heard of Bouchard’s cottage and
with his hand had gestured widely to the right. That was as well as he
could do.
The wind up here was cold and Brent buttoned his coat more tightly as
best he could, using one hand. It put new life into one, though. The air
was keen as a knife and the sky as clear as crystal water. Brent
remembered the exhilaration he had experienced last night flying through
the star-studded sky. It had been keen! But a most cruel reminder of his
last flight with Gale. Then, too, in the beginning the stars had been
close and friendly.
Brent halted in his stride and knit his brows in perplexity. Had the
plane crash occurred near here? No, he corrected himself. It had been
much farther south. How then, had Gale wandered way up here? He shook
his head and went on.
Ahead a thin blue column of smoke drifted up from beyond a slight rise
in ground. He redoubled his efforts. That must be Bouchard’s cottage. He
came to the hill and leaned momentarily against a tree to get his
breath, looking down at the log cabin and the open clearing before him.
A girl was romping with a dog. The same girl whom he had seen in the
village. There could be no doubt, it was Gale. The way she lifted her
head, the laugh that floated up to him when the dog in play nipped her
fingers. All of them bespoke Gale. He stood there watching, for it was a
charming scene. In the snow the dog and girl, when she suddenly stumbled
over the former, rolled over and over.
When Gale sat up there was a glow in her cheeks and a laugh bubbled in
her voice. Toto stood, legs slightly asprawl, gazing at her, his red
tongue dangling from between white teeth, his eyes dancing with
mischief. François appeared in the cabin doorway, leaning upon his
improvised crutch. After a brief greeting to him Toto trotted back to
Gale and put his front paws into her lap, looking up into her face with
a doggy smile.
Brent started toward them and when Gale saw him she stood up, shaking
the snow from her coat and attempting to straighten her disheveled cap.
François had disappeared within the cabin again and from there came the
sound of Antoinette, humming at her work.
“Gale—don’t you know me?” Brent asked, as soon as he was within
speaking distance.
Gale merely stared at him. She recognized him as the strange young man
who had called after them that morning in the village—but that was all!
“Gale! I’m Brent—surely you haven’t forgotten me!” he said, half
laughing. He went toward her, seeking to touch her, but she eluded him.
She ran for the protection of the cottage with Toto at her heels. Brent
had no course but to follow. He stood in the doorway and looked at the
others before him. It was a homelike, cozy, if crude room. François sat
in a chair by the fireplace. Gale stood behind his chair while in the
corner Antoinette was watching him in surprise, her sewing now
forgotten.
“How—how do you do,” Brent began uncertainly. “I——”
“Enter, Monsieur,” François invited courteously, “and be seated by the
fire. The day is cold and you have come a long way?” The last of his
speech was a question.
Brent inclined his head and took the chair opposite François, his eyes
on Gale. In the half daylight and glow from the fire he was more certain
than ever of her identity. Yet if it were Gale, surely she would know
him?
Without preliminary Brent spoke in French. “That girl,” he nodded toward
Gale, “is she—your sister also, Monsieur Bouchard?”
François smiled faintly. “You know me, Monsieur? Yet I do not know you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I quite forgot myself. I am Brent Stockton,” Brent
continued. “You see, for weeks I have been searching Canada for a girl.
We crashed in an airplane some little distance from here. I left her in
the plane and went for help, but while I was absent she disappeared.
Since then I have not been able to find her. This young lady is very
much like her—very much,” he murmured again.
François nodded and frowned into the fire. “I was afraid we were causing
someone a great deal of anxiety, but it could not be helped. You see I
injured my foot the day after, and I have not been able to go to the
village to notify the authorities. My sister knows very little about
such things.”
“Yes?” Brent murmured. He was waiting impatiently.
“I found Mademoiselle, here,” François looked up at Gale and the two
exchanged smiles, though she did not understand his French words, “in a
wrecked airship weeks ago. She was pinioned in her seat by a fallen tree
branch which I moved.”
“My plane!” Brent gasped.
“As you say, Monsieur. I brought her here. She seemed unhurt, but her
mind——”
Brent grasped the edge of his chair. “What was it?”
“Her memory, Monsieur, it is gone. Do you understand? We could not
notify anyone because we did not know who she was. She has remained here
ever since.”
Brent sat stunned. It was hard for him to grasp the fact. No wonder Gale
hadn’t recognized him! His glance wandered to the girl. She was standing
slim and straight behind François. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her
skin creamy, she was as he had seen her last except for a slight shadow
in the depth of her eyes.
“She seems all right,” he said finally.
“Yes, Monsieur,” François said. “She is in perfect health except for—it
is sad.”
“She must go back with me,” Brent said finally. “Her parents are
frantic—her friends—we will have the best doctors in the land.”
“Time and peace will heal her,” François said. “I studied medicine,
Monsieur, I know.”
Brent stood up. “I have no words with which to thank you, sir. It is a
debt which can never be repaid. If it had not been for you——”
“It is nothing,” François said, with difficulty rising and holding out
his hand to Brent. “We have loved her as a sister, Monsieur.”
Brent silently wrung the Frenchman’s hand and felt he must burst with
gratitude. To think at last he had found Gale! He took a step toward her
and she backed away. She seemed curiously afraid of him.
“Gale,” and now François spoke in English, “this young man has come to
take you back to your parents and friends.”
“He knows——” Gale started in a whisper.
François nodded. “He knows you. He has come to take you back to those
who love you.”
“I must leave?” Gale wanted to know. She glanced first at François, at
Antoinette and then down at Toto.
“Yes,” François said sadly.
“Come, Gale,” Brent said gently, holding out his hand.
But Gale did not put hers into it. Instead she backed away into a
corner, Toto moving instinctively with her. Brent moved towards her,
talking slowly, gently, but she was terrified. Why, he could not
understand.
Toto, puppy that he was, seemed to know his friend’s fear and bared his
teeth savagely at Brent.
Brent stopped, torn between conflicting emotions, and looked helplessly
at François.
Antoinette ran to Gale and took the trembling girl in her arms.
“Gale, ma chérie, you must go back to those who love you. They are
lonely without you.”
But Gale shook her head determinedly. She didn’t want to go off with
this strange young man, nice as he seemed, and nothing they said could
change her mind. For an hour Brent, François and Antoinette urged,
coaxed, and pleaded with her. But Gale held Toto in her arms and refused
to budge from her corner. Finally they gave up in despair and she
watched with frightened eyes while Brent conversed with François. Every
time they glanced at her her heart almost stopped. She was so afraid she
would have to leave these people who had been kind to her, who
understood her, to go to strangers.
At last Brent moved to the door. On the threshold he turned to look at
her and the picture he carried away was of a frightened girl clutching
her beloved dog in her arms as her sole means of comfort.