Democratic Sentinel, Volume 4, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 March 1880 — RESCUED FROM A POOL. [ARTICLE]

RESCUED FROM A POOL.

Who’s that? Well, I hardly know how to auswer you. Ido not know her natno. I only saw her once in my life, then only for a little time, and the chances are I shall never see her again. Stratige that a woman, a perfect stranger, should give me her photograph? It does sound strange. llow did I get it? Thereon hangs a tale. 1 will tell you it. Tt points a moral, and furnishes ire with a pleasant reminiscence of a toofleeting visit to the mountains. It was two years ago—the summer holidays. 1 had spent them with my wife's brother, George Nettlefold. We had put into execution a long-cherished scheme, and been up to the Adirondack. I shall not easily forget that 'time, nor how the days flew by, nor the sunny weather, nor the wild scenery which presented itself to us in all its glory. Wo were working South after a charming walking expedition, and were still in the wilder parts of that glorious country, when one morning as usual we packed up our knapsacks, and continued our southern route. Wo had dinner at a little roadside inn. it was not much of a repast, and, to tell the truth, neither particularly well served nor cheap; and, having dined, wc went off again, intending to make lor a village which wc were told was some considerable distance off. it was a broiling afternoon, and by the time wo had walked some miles we began to wish wc were near our journey’s end. We pissed one village, and there they told us the other village was a good step further on, for which information wo were not sufliciently grateful. We were half inclined to put up and stay w hero we were; but, being an obstinate couple, and desirous of seeing some falls which were in the immediate neighborhood of our destination, wo pressed on. The suu was setting as we reached the top of an ascent it had cost us some pains to climb. Sitting on th<j bank by the roadside, under the shadow of a mighty tree, we dofftd our hats, so that the gentle breeze might cool our heated brows, Ou u sudden we heard quite close to us loud cries and shouts, as of some one iu distress or danger. Wliat s that?” said I to George. “Sounds as though something was the matter with some one,” said he, getting up and looking over the hedge.’ i rose and joined him. “Why,” exclaimed George, “there’s a lad drowning in the pool.” So it seemed. The bank on the other side of the hedge sank in a sharp descent some thirty feet or more. A little to the loft was a stream or piece of water of some sort; generally it was quito narrow—narrower than this room ; you might have jumped across it—but in one place if widened out into a tiev lake or pond, tolerably deep, apparently ; for somewhere about’the center was a little boy, trying hard to keep himself afloat, and making a terrible hullabaloo. Without a word we got over the hedge and ran down the bank. Callin'* to the youngster to keep etili, I run into the water to help him. It might have been deep enough to drown him, but it barely came up to my shoulders; and when I had once hold of him it was easy enough to pull him out, and he was little damaged, for when I had got him out he stood bolt upright on the bank, looking at me with largo, round eyes. ’* You are not drowned !’’ I said, smiling at his solemn expression. He shook his head, gravely, without a word. Ho was a queer-looking child, quite a little one, scarcely more than 10 years old. So far I had kept my hand upon his collar, thinking he might lad down, or faint, or something; but relieved of any such fears, I took it away. No sooner did 1 do so than without a sign of any intention, he was off like a dart, up the bank, through the hedge and out of sight. George, laughing: there s gratitude for you.” Yca '” «aid I, a little nettled; “he might have said thank you.” “ 0r to,( l us how much farther we have to go,” growled George. “ I’ve got a ducking for my pains,” I continued, thinking somewhat ruefullv of my outer garments. “ That won’t matter,” quoth Georg-' unsympathetically; ‘ you’ll soon get dry.” c We climbed up the bank and continued our journey, talking and laughing over our wayside adventure. Somehow or other, I do not know how, we lost our way; now f&r we went, or where we

got to, I do not rightly know to this day. Matters were beginning to look serious—tho evening was closing in; we were in a wild country, hardly a house in sight; no village, or sign of one; we were fairly tired, and I began to consider what bad best be done. We were in rather an uncomfortable frame of mind when, turning a corner, we saw right in front of us, rising from a belt of treek, a column of smoke. The sight was like an oasis in the desert. We hurried to it and found, to our exceeding satisfaction, it was a charming country inn, shrined in a glorious sweet-smelling frame of honeysuckle. We entered together. The very sight of the bar was enough to do one good. The array of bottles tastefully arranged, the genial air of neatness and comfort which pervaded everything, tilled our wearied souls in anticipation with the sweets of rest. Behind the counter sat a female, looking quite a ia ly, about 35 or so, in widow’s cap and weeds. She rose at our entrance. “ We want two beds,” I said, coming to tho point at once. “We can offer you none,” she replied, civilly, but anything but warmly; “we are already overcrowded.” “No bed!” I said, staggering back, while George’s face fell an inch at least. “ But a sofa, or—” “ I am sorry,’’ interrupted she, speaking as I never heard an inn-keeper, whether mascu'ine or feminine, speak before; “ but we have no accommodation of any sort to give you.” “ Then where shall we find another inn ?” “Tho next inn is about”—she paused —“eight or nine miles farther on.” ‘She might as well have said eight or nine hundred. Out we staggered from that delicious liar into tho gathering night. There was a man, of some sort, standing in the bar; and, as we went out, I noticed him lean over and whisper to tho hostess. It was as though w r e had been lifted to celestial heights to be plunged into unknown darkness. What we were to do wo had not the faiutest notion. To walk eight or nine miles over such a country in our then state was a physical impossibility. It was all we could do to keep ourselves from sinking on the road. As wo went, wearily dragging our legs along, some one came running after us. It was a girl, apparently a servant-girl, young, pretty, and neatly dressed. She seemed in a great hurry. “ Please, sir,” she said, stopping us, “ I’ve brought a message.” I looked at her. “A message? From whom ?”

“From tho inn, sir. Mistress says you’re to come back at once.” “ Gome back at once!” I repeated it after her, astonished. These were odd proceedings. “ She sajs, sir, she will try to make you comfortable. And she wished me to say she is sorry, but she did not know you.” Know me! O f course not. How was she to, seeing she had never seen me before, nor I her ? The ignorance was mutual. “ Let’s go,” said George, cutting further conversation short. I remember as we followed that pretty maiden through the dim gloaming of what promised to be an unusually dark night of half wondering whether she were having a little game with us. But she was not, and in thinking so I wronged her. When we reached the inn the hostess bowed. “ I am sorry, sir,” she said, in a stately -way, “ to have sent you away, but I did not know you.” Did not know me. What did she mean by saying that she did not know rr.e? Of couise sho did not know me. How was she to? But I had no time for reflection. The servant showed us into au inner room, the neatest, coziest, prettiest little room, I do believe, I ever saw. George threw himself on the sofa, while I sat on a chair, my feet apart, my hands on my knees, staring into vacancy, feeling a little mystified. In a few minutes the servant returned. “Please, will you step this way, sir ?” said she to me. George ivas asleep on the sofa, and did not notice her entrance. I followed her up-stairs; we were evidently among the bedrooms. She stopped at the door, and, opening it, showed me in. It was a sleeping apartment, quite small, but so neat and clean and pretty, so unlike the usual thing you expect in hotels and inns, that I looked at the servant in amaze. There were a suit of clothes laid out ujiou the bed, black and seeming quite new, and a clean white shirt hanging on a chair, a collar, necktie and socks on the seat, and a pair of slippers on the floor. “Mistress,” said my guide, “wishes you to change your clothes, or else you will get cold.” This was a fresh surprise. She was really a considerate landlady. Landladies are not in the habit—or landlords either, unfortunately—of offering and providing entire changes of clothing to wet and wearied travelers. “What,” I inquired, “is your mistress’ name?” “Mrs. Mac”—something iu three syllables, but what I could not catch. She then withdrew.

Taking oft' my drenched suit, I first had a thorough good wash, and then put on the clothes provided. When I was dressed, I am inclined to think I looked like an undertaker’s man got up for a funeral. I went down-stairs again and found my Phillis waiting at the foot to guide me into the parlor, where I found George still sleeping. Without remorse I woke him up. “George,” I exclaimed, “this is a queer set out.” “What’s a queer set-out?” muttered he, - yawning prodigiously. “ This,” I said. “Look at me.” H.o rubbed his eyes and stared. “ Whose undertaker’s establishment have you been robbing?” lie queried. “Wherever did you get those things from ?" I told him. “Well,’ said he, “she’s a pleasant sort of landlady. She seems to have taken a fancy to you. 1 ' “Don’t taik nonsense,’ I retorted, thinking of Kate and my family of seven. “ I hope,” said he, “ among her other kindnesses, she won’t forget to let us have some supper.” The words wero hardly out of his mouth wheu there was a tap at the door, and in came Phillis, ‘ Please, sir,” said the admirable young person, “mistress says may I lay the table for supper?” “Give your mistress my compliments,” replied George, with assumed dignity—“xMr. Nettlefold’s eomplirneuts, and say ‘ with the greatest pleasure.’ ” She did not give her mistress his compliments, at least not then; but, without a word or a smiie, laid it there aud then, covering it with a snow-white table-cloth, and laving it with that charming air of liome-like comfort which prevaded everything. Tlow they managed to prepare such a supper in such a short space of time is more than I can say. Tuere were some delicious trout, cooked to perfection, ham and eggs done to a turn, followed l>y pan oak 03 done to a toss. We had good appetites, aud did wonderful justice to the faro. When we had finished we rang the bell, and in came Phillis, who, living learned nnr wishes, showed

us to our room. George and I shared one bed, amply large enough for both. In the morning we overslept ourselves; no wonder, in snch quarters and tired ont as we had been; but when we got down there was the breakfast waiting oar arrival! It was as good as the supper; more trout, omelet, fresh eggs, butter which melted in your month and fresh home-made scones. After breakfast we began to consider the cost of onr entertainment. Hitherto we had been economical, and had indulged in nothing so luxurious since we had been in those Northern regions. We rang the bell, and in came the landlady. We rose as she entered and bowed, which courtesy she gracefully returned. “Wo shall be much obliged,” I said, “if you will let us have our bill.” “Bill! ” she said, drawing herself upright. “Do you wish to insult me, sir ?” Insult her! “Insult you!” I said, visions of “She Stoops to Conquer,” and the mistake Young Marlow made, flitting across my mind. “But surely, this is an inn?” Half fearing we had made a mistake like Marlow’s. “Yes,” returned she, with something like wounded dignity; “ this is an inn, but not to you.” “Not to us!” I exclaimed, amazed; while George, I fancy, began to take her for a lunatic. “Do you think,” she burst out, “I would take money from the man who saved my child?” Saved her child! In an instant it flashed across me, the youngster floundering in the pool, and how the young rogue had run away. “Was—was that your son in the pool?” I asked her, beginning to understand her. “ Ay, it was Alec,” she said, “ my only son.” “But,” I asked, “how did you know it was I who?”— “Donald Macneil”—or some such name—“ told me. He was near by, and saw it all.” I remembered the man in the bar, and how he had whispered to her when we went out; he, I presumed, was Donald Macneil. Well, she would not take a farthing, and we could hardly press her. She, such a strange sort of woman, cold and proud as a lioman mother; no wonder her son was such a queer young fish. It appeared she had not only turned out of her own sittiog-room, but out of her own bedroom too, to make room for us. Where she slept, I have no idea. In the bar possibly, which, by-the-by, would not have been so bad after all. Before we went, we asked her for her photograph, which sue gave us, and there it is. It is not a bad likeness; but it hardly does her justice, it does not give you the proud set of her features; and iu a photograph you cannot get the full expression of her eyes. “ Is that all ? ” “ That’s all.” “ Where’s the moral?” “ The moral is, never neglect to do a good action when you can; you never know how soon you may be repaid.”