Evening star., 1927-07-24


"A ~ nice was about to happen. 4
4 a tune sang through her hear
as her timid blue eyes recon-
menced their familiar Journey around
the walls of the Varney Galleries.
1t was the second anniversary of her
going to work there. and she loved
everything about her job. Incidental.
ly 1t was her 35th birthday. To Miss
Tuck. this latter was fact of very
secondary Importance. During the 33
wears she had spent in her somber
home. slave to the vagaries of a neu'
rotic father her birthday was diff
ferent;ated from other days only by a
deepening of the habitual gloom. Her
coming to that home had marked the
hour OF her mothers going, and Jona-
than Tuck never forgave his only
daughter for that black passing.
Life for Aurelia Tuck began two
years ago, when she presented her
fathers letter to old Mr.. Varney. The
letter was his legacy TO her. Other
wise. he had left her a mortgage
house, unpaid bills, and a sense OF her
inferiority. He had left her also
knowledge of pictures and an appre-
citation Of beauty such as no other
man in America could have be-
Queathed.
But of these she was quite uncon-
sclous. They were as much a part of
her as the cameo cut of her noStrilS,
or the way she had of drawing in her
slim shoulders, as though to take up
just as little of the crowded worlds
room as possible. This gesture, too,
was a leftover from those years when
the concern of her life had been to
attract as little Of her fathers notice
as possible. To keep always within
call. yet outside the range of his dis
pleasure. That was as much as
Aurelia Tuck hoped of life in those
DAYS.
And now she had this. All of it.
The lovely. gracious spaces of this
room. April's first sun flooding
through the curtains. Her mind went
back TO the day when she had seen
the gallery for the first time. How
kind Mr.. Varney had been. She won.
dered where she had ever mustered
the courage to come to New York and
ask for employment.
She remembered the Quizzical lift
Of Mr.. Varney's gray head, as he look.
ed intently at her.
MANY people had looked at Miss
Ava Tuck. but Mr.. Tarney was prob
ably the first who had ever seen her.
well. well, So you're Jonathan
Tuck's girl His tone came back to
her now. He must have led you a
lifer' And, when she opened her lips
in defense, he silenced her.
'Oh, 1 knew him. And owe him
something for that knowledge, too. 1t
was he who backed me up when I
first began buying the Impressionists
He believed in them when Zola's was
the only other voice on two conti-
nents lifted in their defense. When
my clients deserted me, he told me
to let them go.
Plunge, Varney. Buy more. New
clients will come That was his ad-
vice to me, and he was right. He
was the greatest critic of his day."
Miss Tuck dropped her eyes a Sec
ond. Mr.. Varney did not see how
moved she was. He had done Jona
than Tuck and Jonathan Tuck's
daughter a greater Office than he
knew, for ne had sketched a portrait
that was to become more vivid like.
ness of her father than all the
wretched poses he himself had left in
her memory.
When she looked up again. Mr.. Var
ney was staring hard at her.
II won-der?" He speculated, half
IF you have his fair for pictures,
sou will be-
He left the sentence unfinished and
abruptly he brought her to this very
room. He let her wander uninter-
rupted, saw her gaze light. applaud,
devour. Heard her murmur, Beau
tiful. Very beautiful"
Suddenly he said:
viii you be ready to come to work
Monday at 8 o'clock"
And here she had been for two Won
derful years. She could come as early
in the morning as she liked. and stay
as late at night. Sometimes she felt
as though she never left at all. Her
body inhabited space in Mrs. Penning-
toms boarding house, but her mind
winged back at night to the gallery.
And the pictures! These magic
windows flinging wide upon a world of
beauty of Pissarro's Martin Bru-
broodingly upon the somber gray
beauty of Pissarro's 'Matin bru-
meux"; the sluggish, gray Seine. flow-
ing so slowly beneath the arches of
the bridge at Rouen; gray smoke of
tugboats, swirling to meet gray sky.
A slight turn of her small head
brought her into the hushed. breath
less beauty of Summer meadow.
She could almost smell the hay and
hear the bees.
Then the beauty of Monet's cathe.
dral facade. Beyond it the cold.
chaste beauty Of naked birches against
the snow.
Why, the whole world was here in
this room; Her eye came to rest on
the little Renoir nearest to her desk.
A pastel "Deux Femme" Only a
sketch, but her favorite. Mr.. Varney
had ordered it hung there just year
ago today. She always kept it for the
last.
Very beautiful! Very, very beauti.
full" she said it aloud.
They were her friends, those two
women. Often she talked to them
Sometimes they almost answered her.
They were always about to walk
away, yet there they stood, waiting
for her. At times, when she felt espe-
cially courageous. she fancied herself
linking arms with them and starting
on to the nearest tea shop.
She heard herself saying, Lemon
or cream?" with the utmost ease 1t
would be nice to go to tea sometimes;
to have some one real to talk to. But
people frightened her. Even with Mr.
Varney, who was almost a god in her
eyes, she had little conversation, and
young Renshaw, the manager. terri.
fed her so that she could not speak
at all.
X X y 4
A S il her thought had materialized
him, Renshaw opened the door:
THE old man wants you. He's got
some queer penguin who wants to
meet YOU"
Me? There must be some mis-.
take
Now. Miss Tuck, don't get fright
ened. Just my way of putting it.
He's interested in extracting one of
these obscure bits of erudite informa
ton about masterpieces for which you
are so justly famous"
Renshaw prided himself on his