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.”