Pictorial Review, April 1914

HAVE you ever really carefully considered the question of the gall with which Woman, as a sex, fairly bursts? I have, by Jove! But then I’ve had it thrust on my notice, by George, in a way I should imagine has happened to pretty few fellows. And the limit was reached by that business of the Yeardsley Venus.

To make you understand the full what-d’you-call-it of the situation, I shall have to explain just how matters stood between Mrs. Yeardsley and myself. When I first knew her, she was Elizabeth Shoolbred. Her brother Bill was at college with me. My name’s Reggie Pepper, by the way.

I loved Elizabeth Shoolbred and there was a time, for about a week, when we were engaged to be married. But just as I was beginning to take a serious view of life, and study furniture catalogues, I’m hanged if she didn’t break it off, and a month later she was married to a fellow by the name of Clarence Yeardsley, an artist.

As it happened, it didn’t sour my life altogether. What with golf and billiards, I got over it, and came to look on the affair as a closed page in the book of my life, if you know what I mean. It didn’t seem likely to me that we should meet again, as she and Clarence had settled down in the country somewhere and never came to New York, and I’m bound to own that, by the time I got her letter, the wound had pretty well healed, and I was to a certain extent sitting up and taking nourishment. In fact, to be absolutely honest, I was mighty thankful the thing had ended as it had done.

This letter I’m telling you about arrived one morning out of a blue sky, as it were. Till then I hadn’t had a line from her.

It ran like this:

“My dear old Reggie,

What ages it seems since I saw anything of you. How are you? We have settled down here in the most perfect house, with a lovely garden, in the middle of delightful country. Couldn’t you run down here for a few days? Clarence and I would be so glad to see you. Bill is here, and is most anxious to meet you again. He was speaking of you only this morning. Do come. Wire your train, and I will send the automobile to meet you.

Yours most sincerely,

Elizabeth Yeardsley.      

P.S. We can give you new milk and fresh eggs. Think of that!

P.P.S. Bill says our billiard-table is one of the best he has ever played on.

P.P.S.S. We are only half a mile from a golf-course. Bill says it is better than St. Andrew’s.

P.P.S.S.S. You must come!”


That bit about the golf settled me. I knew Bill knew what he was talking about, and, if he said the course was so corking, it must be something special. So I went. I packed a bag, collected my clubs, and started out.

Old Bill met me at the other end with the automobile.

“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said, as we drove off. “I was just about at my last gasp.”

“What’s the trouble, old scout?” I asked.

“If I had the artistic what’s-its-name——” he went on, “if the mere mention of pictures didn’t give me the jiggles, I dare say it wouldn’t be so bad. As it is, it’s the limit. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like when you give her her head.”

I remembered then that most of my time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries. During the period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill.

“They talk pictures at every meal,” he said. “I tell you, it makes a fellow feel out of it. You better get right back to town.”

“But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there’s a most corking links near here,” I said.

He turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.

“You don’t mean honestly she said that?”

“She said you said it was better than St. Andrew’s.”

“She didn’t happen to mention that I added the words ‘I don’t think,’ did she? It’s absolutely the very worst course in America.”

Bill’s words made me feel quite faint.

“We’ll have to take it out in billiards,” I said sickly. “I’m glad the table’s good.”

“It depends what you call good. There’s a seven-inch cut where Clarence’s cue slipped. Elizabeth has mended it with pink silk. Very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn’t improve the thing as a billiard-table.”

“But she said you said——”

“Must have been stringing you. Here we are.”



WE turned in at the gates of a house standing back from the road. It looked black and sinister in the dusk. You see, I was in a very uneasy frame of mind. You couldn’t get away from the fact that I had been lured down to this benighted spot under false pretenses. Elizabeth knew me well enough to know that a specially good golf-course was a safe draw to me. Not to mention the billiard-table. And she had deliberately played on her knowledge. What was the game? That was what I wanted to know. And then a sudden thought struck me which brought me out in a cold perspiration. She had some girl down here and was going to have a stab at marrying me off. I’ve often heard that young married women are all nutty over that sort of thing. Certainly she had said there was nobody at the house but Clarence and herself and Bill and Clarence’s father, but a woman who could take the name of St. Andrew’s in vain as she had done wouldn’t be likely to stick at a trifle. I was horrified.

“Bill, old scout,” I said, “there aren’t any frightful girls or any foolishness of that sort visiting here, are there?”

“Wish there were,” he reassured me. “No such luck.”

As we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman’s figure appeared on the steps.

“Have you got him, Bill?” she said. Which in my present frame of mind struck me as a darned creepy way of putting it. The sort of thing Lady Macbeth might have said to Macbeth, don’t you know.

“Do you mean me?” I said.

She came down into the light. It was Elizabeth, looking just the same as in the old days.

“Is that you, Reggie? I’m so glad you were able to come. I was afraid you might have forgotten all about it. You know what you are! Come along in.”

Have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards married, and then been introduced to her husband? If so, you’ll understand how I felt when Clarence burst on me. You know the feeling. First of all, when you hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, “I wonder what he’s like?” Then you meet him, and think, “There must be some mistake. She can’t have preferred this to me!” That’s what I thought when I set eyes on Clarence.

He was a little, thin, nervous-looking creature of about thirty-five. His hair was getting gray at the temples and straggly on top. He wore pince-nez, and he had a drooping mustache. I’m no White Hope myself, but in front of Clarence I felt quite a person. And Elizabeth, mind you, one of those tall, splendid girls who look like princesses. Honestly, I believe women do it out of pure cussedness.

“How do you do, Mr. Pepper? Hark! Can you hear a mewing cat?” said Clarence. All in one breath, don’t you know.

“Eh?” I said.

“A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!”

While we were listening, the door opened, and a white-haired old gentleman came in. He was built on the same lines as Clarence, but was an earlier model. I took him, correctly, to be Mr. Yeardsley, senior. Elizabeth introduced us.

“Father,” said Clarence, “did you meet a mewing cat outside? I feel positive I heard a cat mewing.”

“No,” said the father shaking his head, “no mewing cat.”

“I can’t bear mewing cats,” said Clarence. “A mewing cat gets on my nerves.”

“A mewing cat is so trying,” said Elizabeth.

I dislike mewing cats,” said old Mr. Yeardsley.

That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily and they went back to pictures. I noticed that Bill kept away. I gathered he was having a quiet cigarette in the billiard room.

We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner. At least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the Mona Lisa, and then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as I was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a valuable painting swiped by burglars the night before. It was the first time I had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with any effect, and I meant to make the most of it. The paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and fetched it.

“Here it is,” I said. “A Romney belonging to J. Bellamy Palmer——”

They all shouted “What!” exactly at the same time, like a chorus. Elizabeth grabbed the paper.

“Let me look! Yes. ‘Late last night burglars entered the home of J. Bellamy Palmer, Midville, Penn.’ ”

“Why, that’s near here,” I said. “I passed through Midville——”

“Mr. Palmer lives only two miles from this house,” said Elizabeth. I noticed her eyes were sparkling.

“Only two miles!” she said. “It might have been us! It might have been the Venus! Heavens! Think of it!”

Old Mr. Yeardsley bounded in his chair.

“The Venus!” he cried.

They all seemed wonderfully excited. My little contribution to the evening’s chat had made quite a hit. I was just going to ask what it was all about, when the dressing gong sounded.



WHY I didn’t notice it before, I don’t know, but it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me after dinner that I had my first look at the Yeardsley Venus. When she led me up to it, and switched on the light, it seemed impossible that I could have sat right through dinner without noticing it. But then, at meals, my attention is pretty well riveted on the foodstuffs.

Elizabeth and I were alone in the drawing-room after dinner, when she suddenly bent towards me.

“Reggie,” she said, “I want to ask a great favor of you.”


She stooped down and put a log on the fire, and went on, with her back to me.

“Do you remember, Reggie, once saying you would do anything in the world for me?”

There! That’s what I meant when I said that about the gall of woman as a sex. After what had happened, you’d have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that sort of thing. But no; women are like that.

Mind you, I had said I would do anything in the world for her. I admit that. But it was a distinctly pre-Clarence remark. It stands to reason that a fellow who may have been a perfect knight errant to a girl, when he was engaged to her, doesn’t feel nearly so ready to cut loose in that direction when she has handed him the citron and gone and married a man whom reason and instinct both tell him is a decided pill.

I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “Oh, yes.”

“There’s something you can do for me now, which will make me everlastingly grateful.”

“Yes?” I said.

She knelt and stared into the fire for a while.

“Do you know, Reggie,” she said suddenly, “that only a few months ago Clarence was very fond of cats?”

“Eh! Well, he still seems—er—interested in them, what?”

“Now they get on his nerves. Everything gets on his nerves. His nerves are completely out of order.”

“Some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over the——”

“No, that wouldn’t help him. He doesn’t need to take anything. He wants to get rid of something.”

“I don’t quite follow. Get rid of something?”

‘‘The Venus,” said Elizabeth.

She looked up and caught my bulging eye.

“You saw the Venus,” she said.

“Not that I remember.”

“At dinner.”

I shook my head. She got up.

“Come into the dining-room.”

We went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights. She turned around and pointed to the awful thing.

“There,” she said.

On the wall close to the door—that may have been why I hadn’t noticed it before; I had sat with my back to it—was a large oil-painting. It was what you’d call a classical picture, I suppose. What I mean is—well, you know what I mean. All I can say is that it’s funny I hadn’t noticed it.

“Is that the Venus?” I said.

Elizabeth nodded.

“How would you like to have to look at that every time you sat down to a meal?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think it would affect me much. I’d worry through all right.”

She jerked her head impatiently.

“But you’re not an artist,” she said. “Clarence is.”

And then I began to see daylight. Exactly what the trouble was I didn’t understand, but it had evidently something to do with the good old Artistic Temperament, and I could believe anything about that. It explains everything. It’s like the Unwritten Law, don’t you know, which you plead if you’ve done anything they want to put you in the coop for and you don’t want to go. What I mean is, if you’re absolutely dippy, but don’t find it convenient to be scooped into the foolish-house, you simply explain that when you said you were the Emperor of China, it was just your Artistic Temperament, and they meekly apologize. So I stood by to hear just how the A. T. had affected Clarence, the Cat’s Friend, ready for anything. Elizabeth certainly was a wonder.

It was this way. It seemed that old Yeardsley was an amateur artist and that this Venus was his masterpiece. He said so, and he ought to know. Well, when Clarence married, he had given it to him as a wedding present, and had hung it with his own hands where it stood. All right so far, what? But mark the sequel. Temperamental Clarence, being a professional artist and consequently some streets ahead of the dad at the game, saw flaws in the Venus. He couldn’t stand for it at any price. He didn’t like the drawing. He didn’t like the expression of the face. He didn’t like the coloring. In fact, it made him feel quite ill to look at it. Yet, being devoted to his father and wanting to do anything rather than give him pain, he had not been able to bring himself to store the thing in the cellar; and the strain of confronting the picture three times a day had begun to tell on him to such an extent that Elizabeth felt something had to be done.

“Now you see,” she said.

“In a way,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s making rather a fuss over a trifle?”

“Oh, can’t you understand. Look!” Her voice dropped as if she was in church, and she switched on another light. It shone on the picture next to old Yeardsley’s. “There!” she said. “Clarence painted that!

She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to swoon, or yell, or something. I took a steady look at Clarence’s effort. It was another “Classical” picture. It seemed to me very much like the other one.

Some sort of art-criticism was evidently expected of me, so I made a dash at it.

“Er—Venus?” I said.

Mark you, Sherlock Holmes would have made the same mistake. On the evidence, I mean.

“No! ‘Jocund Spring,’ ” she snapped. She switched off the light. “I see you don’t understand even now. Reggie can’t you understand that Clarence is suffering? Suppose a great musician had to sit and listen to a cheap, vulgar tune—day after day, wouldn’t you expect his nerves to break? Well, it’s just like that with Clarence. Now do you see?”

“Yes. But what I mean is, where do I come in? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to steal the Venus.”

“You want me to——?”

“Steal it, Reggie!” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “Don’t you see? It’s Providence. When I asked you to come here, I had just got the idea. I knew I could rely on you. And then by a miracle this robbery of the Romney takes place at a house not two miles away. It removes the last chance of the poor old man suspecting anything and having his feelings hurt. Why, it’s the most wonderful compliment to him. Think! One night, thieves steal a splendid Romney; the next, the same gang take his Venus. It will be the proudest moment of his life. Do it to-night, Reggie. I’ll give you a sharp knife. You simply cut the canvas out of the frame, and it’s done.”

“But one moment,” I said. “I’d be delighted to be of any use to you, but in, a purely family affair like this, wouldn’t it be better—in fact, how about tackling old Bill on the subject?”

“I have asked Bill already. Yesterday. He refused.”

“But if I’m caught——?”

“You can’t be. All you have to do is to take the picture, open one of the windows, leave it open, and go back to your room.”

It sounded simple enough.

“And as to the picture itself—when I’ve got it?”

“Burn it. I’ll see that you have a good fire in your room.”


She looked at me. She always did have the most wonderful eyes.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

I don’t know if you happen to be one of those fellows you read about, who are steeped in crime, and so forth, and think nothing of pinching diamond necklaces. If you’re not, you’ll understand that I felt when I sat in my room, waiting to get busy, a lot less fond of the job I’d taken on than I had done when I promised to tackle it in the dining-room. It all seemed easy enough, but I couldn’t help feeling there was a catch somewhere; and I’ve never known time pass slower. The kick-off was scheduled for one o’clock in the morning, when the household might be expected to be pretty sound asleep; but at a quarter to, I couldn’t endure it any longer. I lit the lantern I had taken from Bill’s bicycle, took a grip of my knife, and slunk down-stairs.

The first thing I did on getting to the dining-room was to open the window. I had half a mind to smash it, so as to give an extra bit of local color to the affair, but decided not to, on account of the noise. I had put my lantern on the table, and was just reaching out for it, when something happened.



WHAT it was, for the moment I couldn’t have said. It might have been an explosion of some sort or an earthquake. Some solid object caught me a frightful whack on the chin; sparks and things occurred inside my head; and the next thing I remember’ is feeling something wet and cold splash into my face, and hearing a voice that sounded like old Bill’s say “Feeling better now?”

I sat up. The lights were on, and I was on the floor, with old Bill kneeling beside me with a soda siphon.

“What happened?” I said.

“I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he said. “I hadn’t a notion it was you. I came in here, and saw a lantern on the table and the window open and a guy with a knife in his hand, so I didn’t stop to make inquiries, but just let go at his jaw for all I was worth. For the love of Mike, what do you think you’re doing, anyway? Were you walking in your sleep?”

“It was Elizabeth,” I said. “Why, you know all about it. She said she had told you.”

“You don’t mean——?”

“The picture. You refused to sit in, so she asked me.”

“Reggie, old man,” he said, “I’ll never believe what they say about repentance again. It’s a fool’s trick and upsets everything. If I hadn’t repented and thought it was rather tough on Elizabeth not to do a little thing like that for her, and come down here to do it after all, you wouldn’t have stopped that sleep-producer with your chin. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” I said, giving my head another shake to make certain it was still on.

“Would you like some more soda-water? No? Well, how about getting this job finished and going to bed? And let’s be quick about it, too. I’ll hold the light and you carve. Don’t spike yourself on that sword of yours.”

It was as easy a job as Elizabeth had said. Just four quick cuts, and the thing came out of its frame like an oyster. I rolled it up. Old Bill had put the lantern on the floor and was at the sideboard, collecting whisky, soda, and glasses.

“We’ve got a long evening before us,” he said. “You can’t burn a picture of that size in one chunk. You’d set the chimney on fire. Let’s do the thing comfortably. Clarence can’t grudge us the stuff. On we go.”

We went up to my room, and sat smoking and yarning away and sipping our drinks, and every now and then cutting a slice off the picture and shoving it in the fire till it was all gone. We had just put the last slice on, when Bill sat up suddenly, and gripped my arm.

“I heard something,” he said.

I listened, and, by Jove, I heard something, too. My room was just over the dining-room, and the sound came up to us quite distinctly. Stealthy footsteps, by George! And then a chair falling over.

“There’s somebody in the dining-room,” I whispered.

Bill was out of his chair in one jump.

“Come on,” he said. “Bring the poker.”

I brought the tongs as well. I felt like it. Old Bill collared the knife. We crept down-stairs.

The room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the rear end. Standing on a chair in front of Clarence’s “Jocund Spring,” holding a candle in one hand, and reaching up with a knife in the other, was old Mr. Yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a gray dressing-gown. He had made the final cut just as we rushed in. Turning at the sound, he slipped, and he and the chair and the candle and the picture came down in a heap together. The candle went out.

“What on earth?” said Bill.

I felt the same. I picked up the candle, and lit it. And then a most fearful thing happened. The old man picked himself up, and suddenly collapsed into a chair and begin to cry like a child. I looked at old Bill. Old Bill looked at me. Presently old Yeardsley sat up, and began talking with a rush.

“Clarence?” he asked hesitatingly.

“He’s in bed,” I reassured him; then he went on more at ease:

“Young men, I throw myself on your mercy. Don’t be hard on me. Listen!” He grabbed at Bill, who sidestepped. “I can explain everything. Everything. You are not artists, you two young men, but I will try to make you understand, make you realize what this picture means to me. I was two years painting it. It is my child. I watched it grow. I loved it. It was part of my life. Nothing would have induced me to sell it. And then Clarence married, and in a mad moment I gave my treasure to him. You cannot understand, you two young men, what agonies I suffered. The thing was done. It was irrevocable. I saw how Clarence valued the picture. I knew that I could never bring myself to ask him for it back. And yet I was lost without it. What could I do? Till this evening I could see no hope. Then came this story of the theft of the Romney from a house quite close to this, and I saw my way. Clarence would never suspect. He would put the robbery down to the same band of criminals who stole the Romney. Once the idea had come, I could not drive it out. I fought against it, but to no avail. At last I yielded, and crept down here to carry out my plan. You found me.” He grabbed again, at me this time, and got me by the arm. He had a grip like a lobster. “Young man,” he said, “you would not betray me? You would not tell Clarence?”

I was feeling mighty sorry for the poor old fellow by this time, don’t you know, but I thought it would be kindest to give it him straight instead of breaking it by degrees.

“I won’t say a word to Clarence, Mr. Yeardsley,” I said. “I quite understand your feelings. The Artistic Temperament, and all that sort of thing, I mean, what? I know. But I’m afraid—well, look.”



I WENT to the door and switched on the electric light, and there, staring him in the face, were the two empty frames. He stood goggling at them in silence. Then he gave a sort of wheezy grunt.

“The gang! The burglars! They have been here, and they have taken Clarence’s picture!” He paused. “It might have been mine! My Venus!” he whispered.

It was getting most fearfully painful, you know, but he had to know the truth.

“I’m awfully sorry, you know,” I said, “but it was.”

He started, poor old chap.

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“They did take your Venus.”

“But I have it here.”

I shook my head.

“That’s Clarence’s ‘Jocund Spring,’ ” I said.

He jumped at it, and straightened it out.

“What! What are you talking about? Do you think I don’t know my own picture—my child—my Venus? See! My own signature in the corner. Can you read, boy? Look! ‘Matthew Yeardsley.’ This is my picture!”

And—well—by Jove, it was.

Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we settled down to take a steady look at the position of affairs. Bill said it was my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and I said it was Bill’s fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that I couldn’t be expected to see what I was getting hold of; and then there was a massive silence for a spell.

“Reggie,” said Bill, after we had pow-wowed for quite a while, “I happen to know there’s a train leaving Midville at three-fifteen. It isn’t what you’d call a flier; it gets to New York about nine-thirty. Still—er—under the circumstances—how about it?”