A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
Thus the stranger’s child found a home, with loving hearts and willing
hands to care for her.
But August and Alice Damon Huntress had for certain reasons withheld
their surname from the mother of the child they had adopted.
“I shall never put myself in the power of this woman,” he had said to
his wife, while discussing the question. “If we adopt this little one we
must so arrange matters that she can never be taken from us; so that she
can never even be found by those who give her to us, or be told that she
is not our own flesh and blood.”
So he had called himself August Damon, which was the truth, as far as it
went, but no one in Boston knew him by any other name than Huntress, and
he did not intend that the mother of the little one should ever know
what became of the child after it was given into his hands.
They gave her the name of Gladys, for, as Alice Huntress said, she began
to brighten and gladden their saddened hearts and lives from the moment
of her coming to them.
The Huntresses lived in a very quiet way, on an unpretentious street in
the city of Boston. Mr. Huntress had a good salary, but they were people
of simple tastes, and had more of a desire to lay by a snug sum for
declining years than to live extravagantly and make a show in the world.
For several years nothing occurred either to entice or drive them out of
the beaten track; then, all at once, August Huntress conceived a
brilliant idea, put it in practical use, secured a patent, and became a
rich man.
No other children came to share the love and care bestowed upon Gladys,
and the hearts of her adopted parents were literally bound up in her.
Every possible advantage was lavished upon her, and at the age of twelve
years she was a bright, beautiful little maiden with glossy brown hair,
lovely dark blue eyes, and regular features, and gave promise of rare
beauty when she should reach maturity a few years hence.
About this time it appeared necessary for the interests of the house
with which Mr. Huntress was connected, that he should remove to New York
city.
Accordingly, the beginning of Gladys Huntress’ thirteenth year found the
family established in a well-furnished mansion in Clinton avenue, one of
the pleasantest portions of Brooklyn, while Mr. Huntress’ office was
located in Dey street, New York.
Here Gladys at once entered the high school, having passed her
examinations most creditably, and giving promise of becoming a brilliant
scholar.
She dearly loved study, and asserted that as soon as she should complete
the high school course, she should “make papa send her to Vassar for
another four years, to finish her off.”
And now there occurred an incident destined to have a wonderful
influence on the young girl’s whole future life.
One afternoon in May, after school was over for the day, Gladys
persuaded her mother to allow their coachman to drive her over to New
York to meet and bring her father home to dinner.
She had not, as yet, ever been allowed to go out alone in this way; but
Mrs. Huntress could not accompany her that day, having an important
engagement with some friends; but she knew her driver was perfectly
trustworthy, he was very fond of the young girl, and she was sure that
no harm could befall her, so the desired permission was given, and the
youthful maiden drove off in high glee, and full of importance at being
permitted to go by herself to the great metropolis.
The Fulton Ferry was safely crossed, and the carriage was rolling slowly
up toward Broadway, when Gladys’ attention was arrested by a group of
street gamins, who had surrounded a boy whom they appeared to be jeering
and tormenting in a cruel manner, and who seemed completely dazed by his
position, and greatly distressed by the ill-treatment to which he was
subjected.
He was a peculiar looking boy, having a slender though perfect form, a
delicate, rather aristocratic face, and a finely shaped head, crowned
with masses of light, waving hair, in which there were rich tints of
gold and brown.
He was very pale and his full, large blue eyes had a strange expression
in their depths—half wild, half pathetic—which went straight to our
young heroine’s heart.
He was neatly but plainly clad, though his garments had become somewhat
disarranged by the rude handling of his tormentors, and he was making
ineffectual efforts to recover a very good-looking straw hat that had
been snatched from his head and was being ruthlessly tossed about by the
vicious gamins, who were triumphing in his distress with a sort of
fiendish joy.
“John, what are they doing to that poor boy?” Gladys asked, leaning
forward, and speaking to the coachman.
“They’re a set of imps, miss, and as usual up to some of their infernal
tricks,” replied the man. “It looks to me as if the lad is half-foolish,
and they’re making game of him.”
“It is a shame,” cried the little lady, flushing indignantly. “See what
a nice-looking boy he is—so different from those coarse, rude children.
Stop John, and let us help him to get away from them.”
“Indeed miss, I can’t: it wouldn’t be at all proper,” returned the
dignified driver. “It’s the business of the police to look after such
cases, not for a young lady in your position.”
At this instant a mischievous ragamuffin seized the strange lad by the
hair, giving it such a savage pull that he cried out with fright and
pain, while a shout of mocking delight rang out from the motley crew
about him.
Gladys Huntress sprang up in her carriage, an angry flush surging over
her pretty face.
“John, stop!” she cried, imperiously. “Stop!” she repeated, laying her
gloved hand upon his arm, with a touch which he involuntarily obeyed,
and, drawing his reins, his well-trained horses came to a stand close
beside the group we have described.
“Boys, what are you doing? Let him alone. Aren’t you ashamed to torment
a boy who is weaker than yourselves?” the young girl exclaimed, in a
tone of authority and scorn which for a moment arrested their cruel
sport, while they gazed open-mouthed with astonishment at the elegant
equipage and its fair occupant, who had so nobly espoused the cause of
their luckless victim.
But it was only for a moment.
Everybody knows what lawless creatures the street urchins of New York
are, and the next instant a derisive shout rent the air at this strange
and unlooked-for interference.
“Hi!” cried one, who appeared to be the leader in the fray. “Mr.
Chalkface must be some prince in disguise, and ’ere comes the princess
with ’er coach and span to the rescue.”
Another shout more deafening than the preceding one rent the air at this
sarcastic speech, and Gladys shrank back with a look of disgust on her
young face.
“Pretty little Miss Uppercrust,” the young rascal insolently resumed,
encouraged by the applause around him. “I guess it’ll take more’n you
and your fine feathers to squelch Nick Tower. See ’ere now, how d’ye
like that?” wherewith he gave the poor boy a brutal punch in the ribs
which elicited a shriek of agony from him.
Gladys’ eyes blazed wrathfully. For a moment she gazed straight into the
face of the impudent urchin, her beautiful lips quivering with contempt,
while every eye was fixed upon her with wonder and curiosity.
It was a new departure for a young and delicate girl to face them like
that. It was their experience to have every one of the better class
shrink from them in disgust, and get out of their way as soon as
possible.
Gladys saw that their attention was all concentrated upon her, and that
the boy, upon whom they had been venting their malice, was for the time
unheeded.
She saw, too, that he was stealthily edging his way toward the carriage,
and a sudden bright thought flashed into her mind.
She bent forward as if to speak again, and the interest deepened on
those youthful faces beneath her.
Quick as a flash she turned the handle of the carriage door, threw it
open, and with a significant gesture, she cried out, in clear, ringing
tones:
“Come here, boy, quick! quick!”
The lad needed no second bidding.
With one bound he was outside the circle of his tormentors; another
brought him to the side of the carriage, and the next instant he had
sprung within the vehicle, where he sank panting and trembling upon a
rug at the young lady’s feet.
The door was immediately shut and fastened. Gladys’ face was glowing
with triumph over the success of her ruse, while, at an authoritative
chirrup from the coachman, who, sooth to say, had keenly enjoyed the
spirited and courageous attitude assumed by his young mistress in
defense of the persecuted boy, the horses started on, leaving the group
of gamins speechless and spell-bound with amazement at this unexpected
master-stroke.
It was only for a minute, however; the next rage, at having been
outwitted by a girl, and that one of the hated favorites of fortune,
superseded their astonishment, and a succession of frantic yells burst
upon their ears, while as with one mind they stooped to gather mud from
the gutter, rolled it into balls, and then sent their filthy missiles
flying after the receding carriage and its occupants.
Gladys did not pay the slightest heed to this attack, though one vile
mass came plump against her pretty sunshade where it adhered for a
moment and then rolled into the street, but leaving an unsightly stain
where it had struck upon the rich, glossy silk.
The irate little wretches would have followed up their assault had not a
policeman suddenly made his appearance upon the scene, when they took to
their heels, scattering and disappearing around a corner, like a flock
of frightened sheep, quicker than it has taken to relate the occurrence.
Gladys gave a sigh of relief as the noise and pelting ceased, and then
she turned her attention to the luckless waif whom she had befriended in
his hour of need.
“Get up, boy,” she said, kindly, “they cannot hurt you now.”
But as he still crouched, trembling and frightened, at her feet, she
turned to the coachman and said:
“John, help him up, he is too frightened to move.”
“Come, my lad, you’ve nothing to fear now,” the driver remarked,
encouragingly, and reaching over the back of his seat he took the boy by
the arm and lifted him from the floor, placing him opposite his young
mistress.
He glared wildly about him at first, but as his eyes fell upon Gladys’
sympathetic face the fear faded from them, and he seemed reassured.
Then all at once he put his hand to his head in a distressed way, and
called out:
“M’ha! m’ha!”
“What does he mean, John? Can they have hurt him, do you think?” Gladys
asked, looking perplexed, and regarding the boy’s blank, though
beautiful, face with anxiety.
“I don’t know, miss; perhaps it’s his hat he’s troubled about.”
The lad turned quickly at the word hat, nodded his head emphatically,
and showed two rows of white, handsome teeth in a broad, satisfied
smile.
“M’ha! m’ha!” he repeated, and then there followed a lot of gibberish
that was wholly unintelligible to his listeners.
“How strangely he appears!” Gladys exclaimed, regarding him curiously.
“He do, indeed, miss. The poor chap is an idiot, or I’m much mistaken.”
“An idiot! Oh, how dreadful! Poor boy,” cried Gladys, pityingly. Then
she added, soothingly: “Never mind your hat, papa shall buy you
another.”
The young stranger nodded contentedly, as if he understood her, while
his great blue eyes were fixed earnestly and confidingly on her face.
“What is your name and where do you live?” continued the young girl,
wondering what she should do with him now that she had rescued him from
his persecutors, if he could not tell where he belonged.
The only answer to this query was a senseless smile, accompanied by a
low crooning sound of contentment.
“Oh, dear! can’t you talk at all? What is your name? you must tell me or
I shall not know where to take you,” said Gladys, beginning to look
greatly disturbed, and wondering what would be the result of this
strange adventure.
The boy reached out a white, slender hand and touched the girl
caressingly on the cheek, at the same time making a sound indicative of
pleasure and admiration, but uttering no intelligible word.
It was evident that he was not only simple-minded, but that there must
be some paralysis of the vocal organs as well, that prevented his
talking.
A flush sprang to the young girl’s face, and a strange thrill pervaded
her at the touch of those delicate fingers.
“He is the most beautiful boy I ever saw,” she said, “but, oh! how
dreadful for him not to know anything! I wonder who he is, John!”
“I’m sure I can’t say, miss,” replied the man, looking perplexed and
somewhat annoyed.
“How old do you think he can be?”
John gave a long look at the young stranger.
“He’s small of his age, miss, but I reckon he must be older than
yourself.”
“Older than I! Oh! I do not think that can be possible,” Gladys
exclaimed, attentively studying the strangely attractive yet vacant
countenance before her.
“What shall we do with him, John?” she inquired, after a moment of
thoughtful silence.
“I think we’d best take him straight to the office, tell the master all
about him, and he’ll settle the matter.”
“Yes, I believe that will be the best plan,” Gladys returned, looking
greatly relieved. “Papa will know just what to do. But,” bending forward
and laying her hand on the boy’s arm to attract his attention more
fully, while she spoke slowly and very distinctly, “can’t you tell me
where you live, boy? Do try, and then we can take you directly to your
home.”
The lad looked up with a most confiding smile at her, gently took her
hand from his arm, clasped it tenderly in both his own, and murmured, in
an exceedingly rich and mellow tone, some strange sounds.
“Oh, how sorry I am for him!” Gladys said, with starting tears: “I
wonder if he has any father or mother, brothers or sisters. It would
break my heart to have a lovely brother like this, and not have him know
anything. Hurry on, John, please; I am anxious to know what papa can do
for him.”