Had she reason to doubt him? He was chock-full of lust and vice, and
great in merit as in fault; nevertheless--had she actual proof for
doubting him?
One night her eyes were opened in the most sinister manner. The last
rays of the setting sun had departed from the fields, leaving them
wrapped in the summer evening’s mist and obscurity. Only some horses
greeted the solitary nocturnal marauder with warm, friendly neighing.
They knew him well, although he was only a cat, whose many-coloured
body seemed grey, like all other cats, in the twilight. In doorway, at
the pump, in yard, and in stable he was their daily companion. How nice
to see him here on the meadow too! “Ehehehe,” they neighed ... welcome
to the tethering-ground!
He ignored them completely, neither breaking his stride, nor wagging
his tail, nor giving a single miauw. Past nuisances like foals which
greeted him boisterously he went unresponsive and bored. He was out
hunting now--nothing else mattered!
With gliding step he passes from clover field to seed ground, jumping
with noiseless, tense spring over brook and ditch. His progress roused
the lark from heavy slumber.
He reaches a copse--and soon afterward is heard the death-shriek of a
captured blackbird. With covetous grasp he seizes his victim, buries
his sharp teeth in its breast, and sucks with long sniffs the warm,
odorous bird-smell....
It was not hunger which drove him to the crime: he has just made a full
meal off a couple of fat mice. But when coming unexpectedly upon the
bird in the copse, he could not control his murderous impulse.
He sits with the booty in his jaws, purring contentedly, and ponders
frowningly where he shall conceal his capture.
The summer moon shines big and round from the pale blue, starless
sky--and white, pink-underlined layers of cloud hover like feathers far
out on the horizon. Warm puffs of wind come and go, enveloping him in
the meadow’s silver mist, making the dim shelter of the hedge seem hot
and oppressive.
His eyes fall on the three ancient willow stumps at the far end of the
field! He, too, knows how rotten and hollow they are, and how well
adapted for a hiding-place. True, it is rather a long way there ...
through the soaking wet rye--but that can’t be helped!
The night is absolutely silent, broken only by the rasping song of the
little reed-warbler from a swampy hole among the rye. The din of the
farm has long since died down; not even the bark of a dog is heard,
and neither water-pump nor wind-motor can summon up another note. How
splendid to have ears, to be able to listen! Now he hears only the
play of the grasshoppers, the love-song of the cock-chafer, and the
high-pitched music of the ant-hills.
Here, behind a knotted root at the base of the largest of the old
willow trees, he conceals the blackbird, afterwards covering it
carefully with earth and moss. Then he reaches his forepaws up to the
trunk to stretch his limbs and sharpen his claws.
He gives a violent start! The scarred, rugged skin on his head wrinkles
thoughtfully, as it always does when something attracts his attention.
His multicoloured tail jerks uneasily, as he peers about him with
uplifted ears.
The subdued rustling and squeaking noises from inside the tree trunk
continue....
Now there is no longer room for doubt....
With a giant leap he springs up the tree, and next moment he is down in
the bole.
Grey Puss is not at home....
The little kittens swarm up to him. Tiny seeks to drink, while Black
and Big make a joyful assault on his swiftly wagging tail. He lowers
his nose to each of the little fellows in turn as if tasting their
smell. Then, as if suddenly gone mad, he begins clawing about in all
directions at the defenceless kittens. Mewing and squealing, they
roll away to all sides like lumps of earth--but the he-cat’s frenzy
increases.
He seizes Tiny by the mouth, fixes an eyetooth in his scruff and
hurtles out of the willow with him. The little tot hangs limp and
apparently lifeless in the jaw of his brutal sire; but, fortunately
for him, the old cat is not hungry, and so is content with burying the
kitten at the foot of the willow, by the side of the dead blackbird.
In justice to the criminal it must be stated that he has no conception
of the enormity of his crime; only when he is on his way up the willow
for the second time is he enlightened--and that in a most ruthless
manner. Two rows of gimlet-pointed claws descend from nowhere and
almost nail him to the bark.... Furious, he turns his visage ... and
the next second all his old half-healed wounds are torn open again!
Grey Puss has surprised him--and recognizes him instantly. So it is
_he_ who comes wrecking her maternal happiness; yes, she thought as
much! And like a vice she clings to his back, biting and scratching and
tearing as he flees panic-stricken along the hedge.
Away, away, home, anywhere!
He is more afraid of Grey Puss’ mother-claws than of the raven’s beak
or the blade of the reaping-machine; he has learnt to his cost that a
she-cat knows not the word mercy when her swollen udders are carrying
milk for her young.
He lacked a conscience, this big, piebald he-cat--and he respected
nothing except his own skin! The egg of the lark, the chick of the
partridge, the young of the hare, were each and all grist to his mill;
he took everything he could find, catch, or steal.
On the rafter at home in the farmyard, where Grey Puss used to lie, he
had been allowed free passage, until the very moment when some small
bundles lay shivering on the hay in the corner. Then the fascination
of his black face and shining coat seemed to vanish; she would not
allow him to approach; he was not even admitted to the barn. If he just
showed himself at the trap-door she would become seized with frenzy,
spring up, and fly at him as if he were a dog! He had always to beat a
hurried retreat!
Did she read his character; did she know that the feeling of paternal
love was foreign to his nature? In any case, she took no risks; she
never trusted him over the threshold....