CHAPTER I_Cloudy Jewel

CLOUDY JEWEL

GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

AUTHOR OF

MARCIA SCHUYLER, THE SEARCH, ETC.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

CLOUDY JEWEL

CHAPTER I

"Well, all I've got to say, then, is, you're a very foolish woman!"

Ellen Robinson buttoned her long cloak forcefully, and arose with a

haughty air from the rocking-chair where she had pointed her remarks

for the last half-hour by swaying noisily back and forth and touching

the toes of her new high-heeled shoes with a click each time to the

floor.

Julia Cloud said nothing. She stood at the front window, looking out

across the sodden lawn to the road and the gray sky in the distance.

She did not turn around to face her arrogant sister.

"What I'd like to know is what you do propose to do, then, if you

don't accept our offer and come to live with us? Were you expecting to

keep on living in this great barn of a house?" Ellen Robinson's voice

was loud and strident with a crude kind of pain. She could not

understand her sister, in fact, never had. She had thought her

proposition that Julia come to live in her home and earn her board by

looking after the four children and being useful about the house was

most generous. She had admired the open-handedness of Herbert, her

husband, for suggesting it. Some husbands wouldn't have wanted a poor

relative about. Of course Julia always had been a hard worker; and it

would relieve Ellen, and make it possible for her to go around with

her husband more. It would save the wages of a servant, too, for Julia

had always been a wonder at economy. It certainly was vexing to have

Julia act in this way, calmly putting aside the proposition as if it

were nothing and saying she hadn't decided what she was going to do

yet, for all the world as if she were a millionaire!

"I don't know, Ellen. I haven't had time to think. There have been so

many things to think about since the funeral I haven't got used yet to

the idea that mother's really gone." Julia's voice was quiet and

controlled, in sharp contrast with Ellen's high-pitched, nervous

tones.

"That's it!" snapped Ellen. "When you do, you'll go all to pieces,

staying here alone in this great barn. That's why I want you to decide

now. I think you ought to lock up and come home with me to-night. I've

spent just as much time away from home as I can spare the last three

weeks, and I've got to get back to my house. I can't stay with you any

more."

"Of course not, Ellen. I quite understand that," said Julia, turning

around pleasantly. "I hadn't expected you to stay. It isn't in the

least necessary. You know I'm not at all afraid."

"But it isn't decent to leave you here alone, when you've got folks

that can take care of you. What will people think? It places us in an

awfully awkward position."

"They will simply think that I have chosen to remain in my own house,

Ellen. I don't see anything strange or indecent about that."

Julia Cloud had turned about, and was facing her sister calmly now.

Her quiet voice seemed to irritate Ellen.

"What nonsense!" she said sharply. "How exceedingly childish, letting

yourself be ruled by whims, when common sense must show you that you

are wrong. I wonder if you aren't ever going to be a _woman_."

Ellen said this word "woman" as if her sister had already passed into

the antique class and ought to realize it. It was one of the things

that hurt Julia Cloud to realize that she was growing old apparently

without the dignity that belonged to her years, for they all talked to

her yet as if she were a little child and needed to be managed. She

opened her lips to speak, but thought better of it, and shut them

again, turning back to the window and the gray, sodden landscape.

"Well, as I said before, you're a very foolish woman; and you'll soon

find it out. I shall have to go and leave you to the consequences of

your folly. I'm sure I don't know what Herbert will say when he finds

out how you've scorned his kindness. It isn't every brother-in-law

would offer--yes, _offer_, Julia, for I never even suggested it--to

take on extra expense in his family. But you won't see your

ingratitude if I stand here and talk till doomsday; so I'm going back

to my children. If you come to your senses, you can ride out with

Boyce Bains to-morrow afternoon. Good-by, and I'm sure I hope you

won't regret this all your life."

Julia walked to the door with her sister, and stood watching her

sadly while she climbed into her smart little Ford and skillfully

steered it out of the yard and down the road. The very set of her

shoulders as she sailed away toward home was disapproving.

With a sigh of relief Julia Cloud shut the door and went back to her

window and the dreary landscape. It was time for a sunset, but the sky

was leaden. There Would be nothing but grayness to look at, grayness

in front of her, grayness behind in the dim, silent room. It was like

her life, her long, gray life, behind and ahead. All her life she had

had to serve, and see others happy. First as a child, the oldest

child. There had been the other children, three brothers and Ellen.

She had brought them all up, as it were, for the mother had always

been delicate and ailing. She had washed their faces, kissed their

bruises, and taken them to school. She had watched their love-affairs

and sent them out into the world one by one. Two of the brothers had

come home to die, and she had nursed them through long months. The

third brother married a wealthy girl in California, and never came

home again except on flying visits. He was dead now, too, killed in

action in France during the first year of the Great War. Then her

father had been thrown from his horse and killed; and she had borne

the burden for her mother, settled up the estate, and made both ends

meet somehow, taking upon herself the burden of the mother, now a

chronic invalid. From time to time her young nieces and nephews had

been thrust upon her to care for in some home stress, and always she

had done her duty by them all through long days of mischief and long

nights of illness. She had done it cheerfully and patiently, and had

never complained even to herself. Always there had been so much to be

done that there had been no time to think how the years were going by,

her youth passing from her forever without even a glimpse of the

rose-color that she supposed was meant to come into every life for at

least a little while.

She hadn't realized it fully, she had been so busy. But now, with the

last service over, an empty house about her, an empty heart within

her, she was looking with startled eyes into the future and facing

facts.

It was Ellen's attempt to saddle her with a new responsibility and fit

her out to drudge on to the end of her days that had suddenly brought

the whole thing out in its true light. She was tired. Too tired to

begin all over again and raise those children for Ellen. They were

nice, healthy children and well behaved; but they were Ellen's

children, and always would be. If she went out to live with the

Robinsons, she would be Ellen's handmaid, at her beck and call, always

feeling that she must do whatever she was asked, whether she was able

or not, because she was a dependent. Never anything for love. Oh,

Ellen loved her in a way, of course, and she loved Ellen; but they had

never understood each other, and Ellen's children had been brought up

to laugh and joke at her expense as if she were somehow mentally

lacking.

"O Aunt _Ju_lia!" they would say in a tone of pity and scorn, as if

she were too ignorant to understand even their sneers.

Perhaps it was pride, but Julia Cloud felt she would rather die

than face a future like that. It was respectable, of course, and

entirely reliable. She would be fed and clothed, and nursed when

she was ill. She would be buried respectably when she died, and the

neighbors would say the Robinsons had been kind and done the right

thing by her; but Julia Cloud shuddered as she looked down the long,

dull vista of that future which was offered her, and drew back for

the first time in her life. Not that she had anything better in view,

only that she shrank from taking the step that would bring inevitable

and irrevocable grayness to the end of her days. She was not above

cooking and nursing and toiling forever if there were independence to

be had. She would have given her life if love beckoned her. She would

have gone to France as a nurse in a moment if she had not been needed

at her mother's bedside. Little children drew her powerfully, but

to be a drudge for children who did not love her, in a home where

love was the only condition that would make dependence possible,

looked intolerable.

Julia Cloud had loved everybody that would let her, and had received

very little love in return. Back in the years when she was twelve and

went to school a boy of fifteen or sixteen had been her comrade and

companion. They had played together whenever Julia had time to play,

and had roamed the woods and waded the creeks in company. Then his

people moved away, and he had kissed her good-by and told her that

some day he was coming back to get her. It was a childish affection,

but it was the only kiss of that kind she had to remember.

The boy had written to her for a whole year, when one day there came a

letter from his grandmother telling how he was drowned in saving the

life of a little child; and Julia Cloud had put the memory of that

kiss away as the only bright thing in her life that belonged wholly to

herself, and plodded patiently on. The tears that she shed in secret

were never allowed to trouble her family, and gradually the pain had

grown into a great calm. No one ever came her way to touch her heart

again. Only little children brought the wistful look to her eyes, and

a wonder whether people had it made up to them in heaven when they had

failed of the natural things of this life.

Julia Cloud was not one to pity herself. She was sane, healthy, and

not naturally morbid; but to-night, for some reason, the gray sky, and

the gray, sodden earth, and the gray road of the future had got her in

their clutches, and she could not get away from them. With straining

eyes she searched the little bit of west between the orchard tree that

always showed a sunset if there was one; but no streak of orange,

rose, or gold broke the sullen clouds.

Well, what was she going to do, anyway? Ellen's question seemed to

ring on stridently in her ears; she tried to face it looking down the

gray road into the gray sky.

She had the house, but there were taxes to pay, and there would be

repairs every little while to eat up the infinitesimal income which

was left her, when all the expenses of her mother's long illness and

death were paid. They had been spending their principal. It could not

have been helped. In all, she knew, she had something like two hundred

dollars a year remaining. Not enough to board her if she tried to

board anywhere, to say nothing of clothing. All this had been fully

and exhaustively commented upon by Ellen Robinson during the

afternoon.

The house might be rented, of course--though it was too antiquated and

shabby-looking to bring much--if Julia was not "so ridiculously

sentimental about it." Julia had really very little sentiment

connected with the house, but Ellen had chosen to think she had; so it

amounted to the same thing as far as the argument went. Julia knew in

her own heart that the only thing that held her to the dreary old

house with its sad memories and its haunting emptiness was the fact

that it was hers and that here she could be independent and do as she

pleased. If she pleased to starve, no one else need know it. The big

ache that was in her heart was the fact that there was nobody really

to care if she did starve. Even Ellen's solicitations were largely

from duty and a fear of what the neighbors would say if she did not

look after her sister.

Julia was lonely and idle for the first time in her busy, dull life,

and her heart had just discovered its love-hunger, and was crying out

in desolation. She wanted something to love and be loved by. She

missed even the peevish, childish invalid whose last five years had

been little else than a living death, with a mind so vague and hazy as

seldom to know the faithful daughter who cared for her night and day.

She missed the heart and soul out of life, the bit of color that would

glorify all living and make it beautiful.

Well, to come back to sordid things, what was there that she could do

to eke out her pitiful little living? For live she must, since she was

here in this bleak world and it seemed to be expected of her. Keep

boarders? Yes, if there were any to keep; but in this town there were

few who boarded. There was nothing to draw strangers, and the old

inhabitants mostly owned their own houses.

She could sew, but there were already more sewing women in the

community than could be supported by the work there was to be done,

for most of the women in Sterling did their own sewing. There were two

things which she knew she could do well, which everybody knew she

could do, and for which she knew Ellen was anxious to have her

services. She was the best nurse in town and a fine cook. But again

the women of Sterling, most of them, did their own cooking, and there

was comparatively little nursing where a trained nurse would not be

hired. In short, the few things she could do were not in demand in

this neighborhood.

Nevertheless, she knew in her heart that she intended trying to live

by her own meagre efforts, going out for a few days nursing, or to

care for some children while their mothers went out to dinner or to

the city, to the theatre or shopping. There would be but little of

that, but perhaps by and by she could manage to make it the fashion.

As she looked into the future, she saw herself trudging gloomily down

the sunset way into a leaden sky, caring for the Brown twins all day

while their mother was shopping; while they slept, mending stockings

out of the big round basket that Mrs. Brown always kept by her

sewing-chair; coming home at night to a cheerless house and a solitary

meal for which she had no appetite; getting up in the night to go to

Grandma Fergus taken down suddenly with one of her attacks; helping

Mrs. Smith out with her sewing and spring cleaning. Menial, monotonous

tasks many of them. Not that she minded that, if they only got

somewhere and gave her something from life besides the mere fighting

for existence.

She looked clear down to the end of her loveless life, and saw the

neighbors coming virtuously to perform the last rites, and wondered

why it all had to be. She was unaware of all her years of sacrifice,

glorious patience, loving toil. Her life seemed to have been so

without point, so useless heretofore; and all that could yet be, how

useless and dreary it looked! Her spirit was at its lowest ebb. Her

soul was weary unto death. She looked vainly for a break in that solid

wall of cloud at the end of the road, and looked so hard that the

tears came and fell plashing on the window-seat and on her thin, tired

hands. It was because of the tears that she did not see the boy on a

bicycle coming down the road, until he vaulted off at the front gate,

left his wheel by the curb, and came whistling up the path, pulling a

little book and pencil out of his pocket in a business-like way.

With a start she brushed the tears away, pushed back the gray hair

from her forehead, and made ready to go to the door. It was Johnny

Knox, the little boy from the telegraph office. He had made a mistake,

of course. There would be no telegram for her. It would likely be for

the Cramers next door. Johnny Knox had not been long in the village,

and did not know.

But Johnny did know.

"Telegram for Miss Julia Cloud!" he announced smartly, flourishing the

yellow envelope at her and putting the pencil in her hand. "Sign

'ere!" indicating a line in the book.

Julia Cloud looked hard at the envelope. Yes, there was her name,

though it was against all reason. She could not think of a disaster in

life of which it might possibly be the forerunner. Telegrams of course

meant death or trouble. They had never brought anything else to her.

She signed her name with a vague wonder that there was nothing to pay.

There had been so many things to pay during the last two painful

weeks, and her little funds were almost gone.

She stood with the telegram in her hand, watching the boy go whistling

back to his wheel and riding off with a careless whirl out into the

evening. His whistle lingered far behind, and her ears strained to

hear it. Now if a whistle like that were coming home to her! Some one

who would be glad to see her and want something she could do for him!

Why, even little snub-nosed, impudent Johnny Knox would be a comfort

if he were all her own. Her arms suddenly felt empty and her hands

idle because there was nothing left for her to do. Involuntarily she

stretched them out to the gray dusk with a wistful motion. Then she

turned, and went back to the window to read her telegram.

"DEAR CLOUDY JEWEL: Leslie and I are on our way East for a visit,

and will stop over Wednesday night to see you. Please make us some

caraway cookies if not too much trouble.

"Your loving nephew,

"ALLISON CLOUD."

A glad smile crept into Julia Cloud's lonely eyes. Leslie and Allison

were her California brother's children, who had spent three happy

months with her when they were five and seven while their father and

mother went abroad. "Cloudy Jewel" was the pet name they had made up

for her. That was twelve long years ago, and they had not forgotten!

They were coming to see her, and wanted some caraway cookies! A glad

light leaped into her face, and she lifted her eyes to the gray

distance. Lo! the leaden clouds had broken and a streak of pale

golden-rose was glowing through the bars of gray.