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TTEATIST’S SUNDAY AMKRTGAN. ATLANTA. GA., SUNDAY. AUGUST 17, 1318.
ADAM’S CLAY
By Cosmo Hamilton
SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.
F ROM babyhood John Aahley ha* known no
Ufa except that of a lonely Engtllgh farm,
no aoclety except that of hla morose father
p.nd the farm laborers. At the age of twenty-five
he learnt the reaeon for this—hie mother ran
away with hie father's cloeest friend a year
after her marriage. The elder Ashley hse been
determined that his son should be spared a fate
like his own. and has guarded him against the
wiles of wot Idly wise women, learning of the
death of his wife, who forsook him and their
child, the elder Ashley kills himself A few
months later Betty Blundell, a charming hut
heartless married coquette, visits at a neigh
boring farm, learns John's history, and irr.lt* to
her London woman fiiend, Milly Cator. of her
proposed conquest.
Betty takes advantage of a severe thunder-
Itorm to seek shelter at John's farm There she
comes In contact with her victim, and the result
of the Interview Is an appointment for the fol-
owlng afternoon on a nearb • hill
John la on hand promptly Betty make* use
and he
..f all the arts she knows to win him.
leaves her completely fascinated
Betty’s husband. Kvelyn Blundell, a naval
ofTn-er. 1m on his way home to her from a foreign
cruise She telegraphs her friend, Milly Cator,
to detain him In London for another day in
order that she may have the opportunity ror
ano"'"r meeting with Ashley.
Milly Cator. who was once In love with Blun-
deL. lakes a mean revenge on Betty by banding
him the letters telling of her aftalr with Ashley.
Befor* going to his room to read the letters
Blundell has a little flirtation with a restaurant
ws-treSM.
Blundell, deeply wounded at the revelation of
Betty's faithlessness as made In her letters to
Milly. remains In I^ondon. In the meantime
Betty entertains Ashley one evening in her
room, and later, while she is standing at the
window In her nightgown, he cllmos u plhe wall
• nd take* her In his arms The next, day she
brutally tells him that all Is over between them
because she Is married and Impatiently awaits
her husband’s arrival.
Concluded from Last Sunday.
CHAPTER XIV.
‘■Faithful r
U4RLY In the ning, furiously angry.
“ Mrs. Blundell sent a telegram to her bus
band and prepaid the reply. What right
had he to stay at the Metropole while she had
to put up with two Impossible rooms In an
out-of-the-way hole In the country? It was un
just. It was ridiculous. She was only there
she argued, with dabs of angry color on her
cheeks, at hla especial request. All this time
she might have been in London, or near Lon
don, at any rate in civilization, having a good
time
At midday, a telegram and a note were
brought up to her 'he telegram was from
Evelyn Blundell, the note from John Ashley.
“Coming some time to-day," ran the first.
The seoond centalned these eleven words:
“Meet me on the hill this evening for the last
time.”
Anger left Mrs Blundell. Determination took
Its place—a determination to get Blundell to
take her away to London, to Brighton, to
Dieppe, anywhere away from the country,
where there were people, things to dress for,
things to see; a determination to make him
pay for not having hurried to her side.
And she could make him pay, she said to
herself, with a triumphant smile. In which there
was not a little cruelty. She knew her husband
well. She knew ezactly the temper of him, the
nature of him. Ah, yes. he should be made to
pay.
She laughed a rippling laugh of amusement
as she re-read John Ashley’s little note. Yes;
distinctly it would be good fun to see him
again. After all, he was an unktssed man Ho
still existed as a subject for experiments, and
it would be Interesting to see what manner of
mood he was In. ;
But she had plenty to do before the evening.
Whether she ultimately decided on Brighton,
Dieppe. Dlnard, or London, dress was a diffi
culty. She would, she decided,, run through
her wardrobe, and see how she stood—decide
which dresses would pass muster as they were,
which could be made to pass muster with a
little manipulation, and which would have to be
replaced.
She gave little thought to her outstanding
bills at the dressmaker’s. After all, Blundell
oouldn’t expect to get everything for nothing.
And so. In the best of spirits, she Bpent a large
portion of the morning and afternoon trying
on frocks, peering critically at them, patting
them here and there, and making notes on a
sheet of writing-paper.
And she sang the while, as a bird sings, and
flung her arms up gaily at the thought of leav
ing the country she so heartily disliked. Like a
child, she even stood and looked out at the
magnificent panorama, spread In front of the
window, and made a moue at It.
Yes; after all, she had put In a fairly good
time, she thought. John Ashley was very new.
He had given her some excellent fun. He had
proved to her, almost too convincingly, the
fact that she had lost none of her power
The evening came, as evenings have a knack
of dping. She had been longer over her dress
parade than she had Intended to be. Evelyn
would be In the cottage before she could return
from the hill. It pleased her to
think that he would be upset at
not finding her waiting to give
him welcome. She dawdled a
little In giving directions to Mrs,
Weeks aB to dinner, and, for the
same purpose, made her way
quite slowly through the fields.
She had no eyes for the dell-
jato beauty of the evening, for
the rich coloring of the corn, for
the splashes in the hedges, for
the whispers of the shaking
grass, for the loud cantata of the
birds.
’’Dinard, Dieppe, or London?"
she asked herself over and over
again. “Or London. It’s a bad
time of year for Ixrndon, but
there are the theatres, and there
Is the Exhibition—that huge
patch of gravel and painted can
vas, popular chocolates and pop
ular bands But there—there
are people ^people! ”
She .ooked at her watch, rest
lng one pretty foot on the lower
itep of a stile. By taking the
art in which she had driven,
Evelyn would be already in the
cottage. She laughed aa she
imagined hie disappointed face, and wondered
now long It would be before Tie commenced to
blaspheme
Against the sky, erect and very still, stood
Ashley, arms folded, chin low, watching her
gravely as she went up. The expression In his
eyes was curiously cynical, curiously bitter
With a kind of shock Mrs. Blundell noticed
that the young look she had so admired In him
had gone. There were lines about his eyes and
mouth; a peculiar slope about his shoulders
He made no movement as she came nearer.
Bareheaded, there he stood, with a never-ehang
ing expression, like a man turned into a statue.
insignificant, commonplace. She felt small and
Ignoble by the elde of this cold, Impassive man,
and all kinds of ridiculously feeble remarks
fluttered through her mind.
“Good evening,” she said finally, with a
meaningless laugh, for which she hated herself.
"What a beautiful evening "
John Ashley merely continued to look at her
ellently.
“We have certainly been very lucky In the
weather." she added, after a most uneasy pause,
“Your corn is very good, Isn’t it?”
Again she paused. Still Ashley remained
silent, with his eyes going over her slowly.
She felt that he could see Into her heart, and
was a*are of the emptiness of It that be could
see how poorly her nature compared with her
appearance. She could feel the blood flooding
her face. She bent down and plucked some
grass.
“You said you wanted to see me,” she said
"I thought that you had always known that I
was married. I’ve always worn my ring.” She
caught his eyes. She knew that he was aware
that she was lying. "My husband will be wait
ing for me I think I’d better"
’’Stop!" he said quietly. “I have nothing te
say, no reproaches to make. You have merely
proved to me that my father knew what he w as
talking about Before you go out of my life,
will you kiss me once more?”
Immediately Mrs. Blundell became herself,
and Ashley dwindled before her eyes
"Oh, yes," she said; "but you must,really be
quick about It."
He opened his arms and put them round heT.
He drew her slowly toward him. looking down
Into her eyes. Slowly ho bent his head. There
was a gleam In his eyes; and as she looked at
them her dream came back to her, and she felt
his hands close round her throat. She tried to
call out. She struggled wildly. He was killing
her.
A coarse laugh rang through the quiet, scent
ed air, and she found herself falling to the
ground.
When Betty Blundell came to herself, as she
did quickly, the first thing she noticed was that
her stockings looked quite charming against the
green of the grass; the second that her husband
and young John were standing straight up look
ing at one another quietly.
She sat up, and rubbed her elbow and straight
ened her frock and waited, with a sense of de
light, for an outburst of blasphemy from her
husband
Her delight turned Into anxiety The silence
so totally unexpected, so absolutely out of
place, became oppressive. She-examlned her hus
band’s face curiously, and then shot a quick
glance at Ashley’s face
There was none of the mutual hatred that sue
expected and hoped to see upon either face—
only an expression of sympathy.
In the distance a sheep-bell tinkled, and the
shrill voice of a boy frightening the crows away
drifted up. Among the branches of a neighbor
ing tree a linnet sang, and a bee, self-absorbed,
one-purposed, hunted musically for a useful
blossom.
At last Blundell spoke.
“Well," he said, “are you going to kill that
dirty little woman, or Isn’t It worth your
while?”
With a shudder and a gesture of disgust Blun
dell shook her off. "Faithful!” he said. “Faith
ful?”
"Yes. yes ’’
He took out the bundle of letters and flung
them In her face.
The veins stood out suddenly upon his fore
head and his face grew red.
“Get up,” he said; "your stockings won’t af
fect me. And when you’ve got nothing better
to do, run through those letters. They’ll amuse
you. I shall allow you a third of my pay
through my solicitors. You know how precious
much that Is. But you won’t starve, worse
luck I It would be a mighty fine thing if you
could! Your sort don’t starve, but In order to
live as you want to do, you’ll be obliged to fol
low the oldest profession In the world like an
honest woman, and no longer spend your life
indulging In your amusin’ hobby. You’ll find
at least one good woman among your new com
panions—very much too good for you. Here’s
your first week's pay.”
With a sneer oif his face, Blundell dropped
two sovereigns upon the grass at Betty’s feet.
"Evelyn, Kvelyn,” she cried, "as God’s my
Judge”
With a hoarse, Inarticulate cry Blundell
sprang at his wife and seized her by ths
shoulders. All his rage and grief and wounded
vanity and self-pity wore stirred, and they
surged through his veins Into his brain. Mur-
der was In his blood—a red hot, fiendish, Irresis
tible desire to hurt, to smash, to wound, to
stamp upon the beautiful thing who had tricked
and Tooled him, whose life was a lie, whose
touch was contamination, whose mind was
warped and horrid and low The good little
bad woman had used the same expression in
defending a He. On her lips it had not sounded
blasphemous. On the lips of this woman, this
kind of woman :
Blundell shook her as a dog shakes a rat.
His lip was curled up from his teeth, and his
breath came in gasps.
He suddenly flung her away with an excla
mation of horror, and stood shaking for a mo
ment, as he realized what he had intended to
do. Then he, too, turned on his heel and swung
down the hill.
Having sucked a clover-head dry, the bee
moved off, and Its humming hung for a moment
on the air. The boy raised his voice again in
a long whoop, but at a greater distance than
before. The Linnet's song ceased, and the bird
dipped away. Below, the old clock sang the
death and the birth of an hour.
"Evelyn. Evelyn!”
CHAPTER XV.
The End, of It All
VOTING ASHLEY opened the gate of the
* little churchyard gently and closed it
behind him. His hands were still shaking and
his heart still beating quickly.
He halted on the narrow gravel path, bor
dered with Irregular lines of box, and took off
his hat. He would not stand by his father's
grave until he had mastered himself. There
was not much to tell him, but lie would say
what he had to say coolly.
In the fading light he stood erect, with limp
arms and pet face, among the graves of the
villagers, young and old. Young and old, many
of them had worked on the farm. Young and
old, many of them iad been known to him by
sight. Angry blood no longer rushed through
their veins. Pain and happiness afflicted them
no longer. They had escaped
Then, at last, young Ashley made his way
to the grave of his father.
He took a revolver out of his pocket and
placed It by his side. It was the one which
had enabled the elder Ashley to take a short
cut to death.
He looked down upon the letters carved
primly upon the stone and read them over
mechanically—"John Everard Oampbell Ashley
John Everard Campbell Ashley, born, died. For
he loved, for he loved.”
Swamping his great loneliness, forcing aside
his grief, came a rush of intense bitterness. His
face took on a sneer as he reviewed in his mind
the small procession of days In which so much
had occurred. He saw himself -vaklng up and
going to bed with the sun, a sorrowful tbit not
discontented man. He saw himself going
HI
Ik
pfi
•. ....
'Father,’’ he said, bending over the grave,
Ashley shook his head without a word. Then
he stooped and picked up his hat and Blundell
watched the man who thought that he knew
more than his father had known swing down
the hill.
A sudden feeling of fright seized Betty Blun-
dejl. She scrambled to her knees, clasped her
hands together, and cried out:
“Evelyn, Evelyn!” Again the coarse tfaugh
rang out. "Evelyn, before God I have been
faithful to you—before God. Evelyn!”
Blundell was not looking at her. He was
watching Ashley
The beautiful Betty Blundell crept through
the grass and caught up her husband’s hand.
you were right, after alL”
through his day’s work with quiet energy and
determination, painfully conscious of his
father’s absence, but fully aware and approcla
tive of the ripening beauty of the earth. He
saw himself flung Into a state of chaos at the
sudden apparition of the woman who had
seemingly fallen from the sky. He lived over
again the thrill, the bewilderment, the wonder,
the desire. He heard himself appealing to his
father to be let off his promise never to have
anything to do with a woman of the world.
With contempt he went through his blind infat
uation, his implicit belief, his absolute and will
ing capitulation. •
He revived the feeling of ecstasy which noa-
Vi
sessed him as he stum
bled blindly home, cer
tain that all was right
with the world, and that
it was only a matter of
days before he should
possess her, body and
soul; the sense of calm
assurance and thankful
ness which were his as
he waited for her on
the hill; the frightful
shock caused by her cal
lous announcement of
the arrival of her hus
band, His breathing
became short, and the
perspiration broke out
on his forehead as he
again felt his fingers
tightening around the
slim throat and the
mad desire to prevent
her, by death, from
ever being held in an
other man's arms.
"Father,” he said,
bending over the grave,
"you were right, after
all. I am sorry I asked
you to let me off my
promise. Her beauty
took my breath away.
I never had seen any
thing so .wonderful be
fore. I needn't tell you
what she did. You can
guess—all the same, it
has done for me. I
shall end it all with
your pistol. Will you
keep a lookout for me?”
He leaned over the
stone. His hand closed
over the revolver. As
he cocked it a thrush
in a tree almost within
arm’s length of him
suddenly broke into a
throbbing song.
Young Ashley started
guiltily and listened. In
the song he caught a
note of optimism and a
love of life that put
him to shame. He look
ed round. The night
had opened her eyes
while he had knelt
there. Over his head an
evening star gazed
down upon him steadily,
"Coward,” croaked a
frog at his side.
"Coward,” whispered
the wind.
“Live, and thank God
for His great gift,”
sang the bird. “Put back
that revolver. You
are not the only living
thing to know suffering.
You are not the only one to meet with false
ness and trickery. Go home and live it down.
Go home, young Ashley, and oarry out your
work. There are other women in the world,
good, sweet women, whose lives are like the
aroma of flowers, whose Influence in the world
Is blown upon the wind. Don’t whine and
grizzle like a schoolgirl because the only woman
you happen to have met is not one of these
Get up and play the man. Even If you don’t
have the good fortune to find one of these, the
earth Is very beautiful, and you are needed by
the earth. Your father’s case was a different
one. He didn’t take his life until he knew that
the woman he had loved and had lost was free.
He had lived without her for twenty-five bitter
years, and he hurried, rightly or wrongly, to
Join her. You have no such excuse. The crea
ture who twisted you around her finger and
dropped you when you had served her purpose
belongs to no sex. You are badly hit, but the
wound will heal. You gave her your heart.
Don't feed the maw of her vanity by throwing
her your life. Go home, young Ashley, Who
knows how much you may be needed, there?
Who knows, who knows—who—knows?’’
The song stopped as suddenly as it had be
gun. .mother star came out and blinked cheer
fully at him.
Young Ashley slipped the revolver Into hi*
pocket and rose to his feet. He was cramped
and wet with dew. but his pulse was normal
and his blood cool.
“Father.” he said, ‘T am going back to the
farm. Whether the bird said those things to
me or not, they are true. There is work for
me to do, and life is very short. I still refuse
to believe that all women are alike, I will see.
Good night, father.”
Young Ashley shut the gate of the little
churchyard after him softly and turned his face
in the direction of home. Hope led him by
the hand through the copse, not despair.
There were two ways from the churchyard
to Ashley’s farm—the long way over the Hog’s
Back and the short way through the village.
With a superstitious feeling for which he was
unable to account, young Ashley chose the
shorter way. ’’Who knows how mnch you may
be needed at home,” ha repeated ’to himself
again and again And the taster he walked, the
louder rang this sentenoe In his ears.
Blnoe the death of his father, young Aahley
had not felt that he waa needed In the world.
He gave work to a handful of men, and so en
abled them to bring up their fnmllles, It la true.
Old Sloke and his faithful wife depended upon
him for a livelihood, It Is true. The poor
woman and her little superfluous child Vould
have to enter the workhouse but for his charity,
It Is true. But others would carry on the farm
if he were to give it up, and pay the same
wages to his men and to the Slokes, and he
could leave in the parson's care enough money
to provide for the woman and the child for
whom his father had been so sorry. And so
the bare idea of his being needed at home again
gave swiftness to his stride. So great a hold
did the words of the bird's song take upon him
J &
I u*?'
When Betty Blundell came to herself, as she did quickly, the first thing she noticed
stockings looked quite charming against the green of the grass.
that her *
that he broke Into a run as he cleared .the
. copse and turned Into the road.
If, In passing, he had looked Into the post-
office, he would have seen Mrs. Blundell, smil
ing cynically, leaning over the desk, writing
out a telegram. He would not have seen the
wording of the message. Had he done so It
would have conveyed very little to his mind. It
was addressed to Valentine Worthing, 888 Plo-
cadllly, London:
“Meet me Paddington to-morrow, 2:45.
“BETTY BLUNDELL.”
But young Ashley's eyes were looking straight
ahead. Betty Blundell and all to do with her
must belong to the past She had played the
chief part In a bad dream. He would root her
out of his memory, he determined.
All the same, his pace quickened as he ran
under the window's of Mrs. Weeks’s cottage, and
his teeth came together with a snap.
He opened the white gate of the farm and
pulled up. There were lights In-the kitchen and
the sittingroom. But the place w-as as quiet as
usual.
He found old Sloke waiting on the threshold.
He searched the man’s face eagerly. He saw
anxiety suddenly replaced by relief. But noth
ing else.
He passed quickly Into the sittingroom and
looked round wistfully. The lamp stood alight
upon the table. The windows were open, and
the scented air filled the room. The cat rose
up from the hearth and rubbed against his
ankles. The sheep dog charged at him, barking
loudly. The lamplight fell softly upon the pho
tograph of old Ashley. But the room was
empty.
With a feeling of poignant disappointment
young Ashley sat down in his chair.
“Who knows how much you may be needed
at home?” What did that mean, if it meant
anything? Young Ashley did not know whom
he expected to find, but he had expected to find
someone. There was no one. He was still
alone. He was to remain alone, always.
As he said these things to himself, young
Ashley rose quickly and stood listening. He
strode to the door and opened it. He could
hear the rumble of old Bloke’s voice In the
kitchen and the chink of crockery Nothing
that was not usual. Then he shut the door and
turned Into the room. With a sudden feeling of
excitement he went over to his father's chair,
which stood in the shadow.
With difficulty young ABhley restrained a cry.
With her golden head resting against the back
of the chair, her long lashes lying on her pale
cheeks, glistening with tears, her thin, black
legs hanging limp, her hands crossed upon her
lap, lay the little superfluous girl, fast asleep.
From under her hands half an envelope
peeped, with a black border. Young Ashley
bent over the little girl, and held his breath.
His heart beat quickly. He saw' his name upon
the envelope. With the gentleness of a
woman he drew the envelope away and crept
to the lamp With a hand that trembled he
opened the envelope and read the note.
“Honored Sir—-But for your father and you,
my baby and me would have starved or gone
to tho workhouse. I have prayed to God to
bless you both for your goodness every night
of my life. I now write this knowing that I km
going. It will be brought to you by my child
when I am dead. She will need a friend. Dare
I ask”
Young Ashley dropped the letter upon ths
table and flung his arms above hla head. “Oh,
my God,” he orled in his heart, “this Is good
of You. In a bird’s song Your message came,
and I give You thanks. I am needed In the
world. Here is a little girl who shall be one
of the good, sweet women of the earth. I will
guard her. Nothing of harm shall oome to her,
ever.”
With a smile upon his face, young Ashley
tiptoed Into the kitchen.
"Mrs. Sloke.” he said. In a whisper, "the
little girl. When did she come?”
"Well, theer now!” cried Sloke. "Dagged
If Oi dldnt forget to tell ’ee about"
"Never mind—her mother’s dead ”
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Sloke, "yesterday, poor
thing! ”
“She has asked me in a letter to take care
of the child. I shall do so,” said young Ashley,
holding his head high. "Get my father's room
ready for her.”
"The old master's sir?" There was surprise
as well as pleasure In the woman’s voice.
“Yes; and lay her place by my side at the
table. ” A gush of tears came suddenly into
young Ashley’s eyes. ‘Oh, Mrs Sloke,” he said,
with the abandonment of a boy, "It is very good
to be needed again."
He returned to the sittingroom and stood
looking down at the little girl.
She gave a long sigh and opened her eyes.
For a moment she forgot where she was Be
wildered and nervous, her hands wandered
about for the letter Then she slipped out of
the chair and gave a curtsey.
"Oh, Master John,” she said. ‘Tf you please,
I came with a letter from—from"
Her mouth trembled. She shut her eyes. Her
little shoulders shook with sobs.
Young Ashley sat down, put his arm round
the child, and drew her head down upon his
chest, gently.
"Poor little girl," he whispered, "poor UUle
girl, poor little gtrll It is like that with me,
too. You have lost your motheT and I my
father. We were both alone. But you will
have me now, and I shall have you, and I will
try and make up a little, If I can, for your loss.
It will be a poor try, because no one oan ever
make up for IL But 1 will help you keep your
mother’s grave green, and you shall help me
with my father's. Will you, little girl.”
She put her hands against his shoulder* and
leaned back and looked into his face.
"Yes, Master John," she said. Then she
flung her arms round his neck and pressed her
fresh, sw'eet lips on his cheek.
Young Ashley stood up and went over to
the window with the little girl’s hand in his.
A new moon hung shyly in the sky.
“Who knows,” he thought, “who knows?”
, THE l‘IXD.
Copyright by th« E*s Kss Publishing Co. and BrtnUno’a.
“The Plot for the Pennant”
By HUGH S. FULLERTON,
The Pioneer of Baseball Fiction Writers,
Will be one of the many new features in
Next Sunday’s American
Better order at once and take no chance of
missing the first inning of this great story