SHORT STORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15657, 10 July 1914, Page 4

SHORT STORY.

THE MAN FROM PITTSBURG. BT A. MACIiUM WAKNOCK. •■■ ■'■..■ '• i .:"■■'■ /■-■:■;; (Copyright.) / John Pbeston, Pittsburg, Pa., mounted the long uphill road, and stood gazing at the house that had been his mother's home. -Ho had journeyed across 3000 miles of ocean to the pleasant land of Ulster merely to see it. .. '' The climb uphill had heated him, and he put his hand into his pocket to search for his handkerchief. As he did so, his fingers came in contact with a hard object, and a spasm of pain passed over his lean, brown face.

The object was a ring, and it had been returned to him three days ago by Polly Curtis, one of the most beautiful girls in Pittsburg, accompanied by a delicatelyscented note in Polly's dashing hand, to the effect that after due and mature consideration slio had decided to marry a younger and wealthier man. ' He looked at the ring as it glittered in his hand, the diamonds sparkling in the sunlight, with the hard sparkle of Polly's gay, mocking eyes. He had loved the girl, and something clutched at his heart as he realised that the romanco of his life was over. He glanced from the ring to the old, dilapidated house, with its torn curtains and general air of neglect, and wondered if it was worth while to seek admittance, if, ( indeed, anything was worth while in .this "sorry scheme of things entire." He had ascertained by inquiries in Ballybracken that the present occupant, James Morrison, was a hard-drinking man, heavily in debt; that his family consisted of one grown-up daughter and a second wife, whom he had lately promoted to that honour from the position of farmservant, and that the place was rapidly going to rack and ruin. A sudden impulse seized him. . He would throw the ring in the air, and if it fell with the circlet of stones towards him he would demand to see over his mother's old home. If not-well, he would clear out of Ballyh'racken by the first train.

He tossed the engagement-ring in the air, and it fell—tho circlet of stones towards him. With a cynical smile he replaced it in his pocket, opened the rustv gate, and proceeded up a neglectod avenue in the direction of the house. As he drew

.nearer, tho sound of angry, truculent voices was borne towards him from tho window of one of the lower rooms. "I tell ye, James Morrison, no daughyours '11 be. wife o' mine if ye don't hand me over the five-acre field forbye. Them's my plain words till ye. A girl that hasn't the cross I ©' coin ! An' me takin' her out 6' poverty intil a state o' prosperity an' affluence Naw, a bargain's a bargain!" \ "Prosperity an' affluence!" sneered another voice. "Yo know right well that she'll be no better than a servant in vour house, Adam Forsythe; for ye're that close-fisted ye won't keep enough help for the big way that's on ye." "Sure it's what the weemen's horn till -work," retorted Forsythe. "What is she here but a slave, any way?" Rat-tat-tal. John Preston was becoming impatient, but his thunder was unheard (or unheeded) by the angry ones. "Well, then James'Morrison hand sythe, an' put your anger in your pocket, man. I'll naw deny you're a good match for Peggy, but listen here—" At that moment the door opened before John Preston's impatient eyes, and a tall girl in a blue frock and "spotless white apron stood gazing at him .with a startled expression on her young face. He was' vaguely conscious or a quantity of fair, fluffy hair, and of the singularly pure oval of her face. It was her eyes that held him, eyes blue as the heavens above, exquisitely shaped, but with the profoundest sadness in their depths that he had ever looked upon. ; ''I beg your pardon.' Tho American smiled as he raised his hat. He had an exceptionally winning smile, .one that softened marvellously the stern outlines of las brown, clean-shaven face. " I'm a stranger. My name's Preston, and I hail from Pittsburg. This is the house my mother was born in, and I'd a fancy to have a look at the old place. She talked a deal to me about' before she died. Maybe you'd let me have a look at the garden." The girl drew the door behind her. Her face had suddenly brightened, as though with fresh interest. "Well, then, James Mirrison"— hand smote the table and the glasses clinked "we'll clinch the bargain. Peggy an' the five-acre field, ,an' I'll settle tho house an' farm on her the day she—" The girl , standing on the doorstep turned white, _as white as . the walls of the house behind her and the man from Pittsburg averted his face. In his eyes was an infinite in hers the look of a hunted thing. He watched her as she quietly led the way round the gable of the house. Doubtless she ; would have cut a poor enough figure beside some of the Pittsburg damsels of his < acquaintance beside—again a spasm of pain shot across-his face— gem-like loveliness of Polly Curtis. Yet there was a certain untutored grace in her movements; and a spirit looked out of those sad blue eyes that was not without it's appeal to a man's heart. He stood for a moment or two amid the wild welter of marehmallows, Jcnotweed, and fuchsias that rioted over the neglected garden. His mother! How . she would have hated this disorder! The girl, perhaps reading the thought in his eyes, spoke in a voice whose delicately-modu-lated' cadences were as music to an ear accustomed to the discordant twang of America.

"I—l'm afraid it's not worth looking at. In ray own mother's time it was lovely, but we—we've so much to do— there's no time."

Preston's eyes travelled to her hands, exquisitely shaped as they were, but seamed and coarsened with toil. Suddenly he turned abruptly on his heel, pulling his straw hat down over his eyes. "Humph! No, of course not. Well, I reckon you've too much to do to be bothered with strangers; so I'll just make myself scarce." But as he held the gate open for her to pass out voices and footsteps were heard approaching. For a moment Peggy Morrison stood as though turned to stone; then Tier eyes lifted themselves to tirestranger's, and her white lips seemed to form some words which she could not utter, but if over a wild prayer for help looked out of a human face it was, from Peggy Morrison's at that-moment; and all the chivalry in John Preston's soul rushed to her mute appeal. But there was no time for speech. The next instant two men had appeared round the gable of the houseone tall, broad, and stalwart, with a dour mouth and a lowering forehead; the other short and fat, with a pair of pig-like eyes, gleaming from a putty-coloured face. "Good-day, sir!" said the tall man, James Morrison, nodding to the American. Even the surliest Irish farmer has some show of courtesy for a stranger. The American briefly introduced himself and stated his errand. Morrison scarcely listened. An idea appeared to have occurred to him. " See here, Forsythe"—he turned to the fat man—"this party's just the party we want. I suppose, sir," he added, addressing the stranger, "je'd have no objection to come in by an' witness a paper? It has to .do with a contract.o' marriage we're gettin' up between my friend here ,an,' my daughter."

| • John Preston's first impulse was to de--1 cline the honour with inward disgust; but again he caught sight of Peggy Morrison's face, and the words died oil his lips., For in those eyes of hers, so sad, so eloquent, he read, as clearly as' though she had spoken them, the words, "Save me I" It was her last desperate resort, " I reckon I'll go along in an' hear what you've got to say; but I don't sign papers m a hurry," answered the American slowly. 1- .-'■'.-•• ■ He followed hit host across the threshold of his mother's old home. A hardfaced, dark-browed woman was summoned from the back regions, and introduced as "the mistress." All took their places round a table on which were a bottle of whisky, some tumblers, and writing materials. Peggy Morrison would have fled from the room, but an imperious gesture from her father checked her. ,•

James Morrison proceeded to read aloud the contents of the document lying on the table. The man from Pittsburg, however, scarcely listened. The scene fascinated while it revolted him—the dilapidated room, the whisky bottle, Morrison, handsome but drink-sodden, his wife slatternly and frowsy, Forsytho with small, tight eyes fixed greedily on Peggy, and lastly the victim herself, with downcast eyes and look of mute sufferings, "You've no'objection to sign this as a witness, I take it?" said James Morrison, handing the American a pen. "Mistress, fill up them glasses, and we'll drink to the health of the bride and groom." ■ The man from Pittsburg had risen, but ho made no attempt to seize the pen. Instead, ho quietly took up a position behind Peggy Morrison's chair, resting his hands on the back of it. The action was, somehow, significant. A silence fell, broken at last by the American. "I guess I've got a question or two to ask you, Mr. Morrison, before I sign that paper. What price would you be willing to accept for this farm, cash down?" Morrison's jaw dropped for a moment. Suddenly he laughed a harsh laugh, and named a price that he and • all present knew to be outrageous. , "Done," said the man from Pittsburg.

"I accept your terms if you'll allow me to become a suitor for your daughter's hand."

Had a bomb-shell dropped in their midst they could not have been more astounded. Morrison started to his feet. The man Forsythe uttered a cry like that of an enraged bull. The slatternly woman's mouth gaped. Peggy Morrison alone sat white, tense, rigid, as though carved in stone.

"Aro ye fooHn' us all?" cried Morrison in angry amazement. John Preston quietly took out his pocket-book, took some thing, from it, and handed it to Morrison.

" Ami now, sir"—lie turned to Forsythe —" what's your price?" The baffled suitor shook a putty fist at him.

" I'll bring an action for breach of promise, so I will, and my price']] be five hundherd pounds, not a penny less." "Done," paid the man from Pittsburg, "and just to show you that there's no ill-will, I'll write you a cheque for six hundred."

A gleam came into Forsytho's greedy eyes. Yet lie looked at Peggy, and hesitated. But suddenly, with an exclamation, James Morrison advanced to the American, .and held out his hand. '

"Mr. Preston! I-ask your pardon for doubtin' ye. So you're Mary Weir's son! I miud her well. An' you're a millionaire! Well! well! Aye, ye'll get the .farm at the price, an' Peggy too, right enough. Come on, Forsy'the.' Come on, missus. We'll leave them together. Dang it all! Mary Weir's son a millionaire. An' mo wantin' to sell the land

this five year an' couldn't get a decent bid! Come on, Forsythe, I've somethin' to say to ye."' They filed out one by . one. ' As the dour closed Preston turned to Peggy. Slow tears had begun to trickle down her white cheeks. He bent over her, and his vojee was scarcely recognisable as that of the man who had spoken a moment ago. . "I would have spared you this horrible humiliation if I could, wolMhere was only one way to set you free. And now I must tell you-something before I ask you to be my wife. I came up to this house to-day a sorely disappointed man. A girl out there in Pittsburg had jilted me, and sent me back my ring. | You see, I'm only a millionaire, and well, the other chap's a multi-millionaire. Now,.what I want to know is, do you care to marry a jilted man?" She looked up at him, puzzled, appealing, yet with the dawning light of womanhood on her face.

"Do you still love her?" she whispered. The American hesitated. He was gazing into the virginal blue of those lovely eyes, as though he would read her very soul. At last he drew a long breath and took her hand in his. "I thought I still loved her, till—well, till this very moment, Peggy. Reckon I thought my heart was -■ broken. But, o'you know I guess you can mend that broken heart if you want to." Then Peggy smiled up at him for the first time, and in the radiance of that conquering smile the man from Pittsburg j found again his lost happiness. He stooped and kissed her on the lips, and, as he did bo, he quietly slipped something on her finger. « "Don't hesitate to wear it," he eaid, " it's been a lucky ring to me." To-morrow Saturday publication will commence in these columns of another new and interesting story. The serial is from the able pen of Morice Gerard, and is entitled "NIGHT WINGS." Instalments will be published daily.