CHAPTER VIII

EPITAPH

It cannot be determined by what train of reasoning Abel proceeded from one unfortunate experience to create another, or why the grief incidental on a loss should now have nerved him to an evil project long hidden in his thoughts.  But so it was; he suffered a sorrow and, under the influence of it, found himself strong enough to attempt a crime.

There was no sort of connection between the two, for nothing could bear less upon his evil project than the death of Mr. Churchouse’s old cat; yet thus it fell out and the spirit of Abel reacted to his own tears.

He came home one day from school to learn how the sick cat prospered and was told to go into the study.  His mother knew the child to be much wrapped up in Peter Grim, and dreading to break the news, begged Mr. Churchouse to do so.

“Your old playfellow has left us, daddy,” said Ernest.  “I am glad to say he died peacefully while you were at school.  I think he only had a very little bit of his ninth and last life left, for he was fifteen years old and had suffered some harsh shocks.”

“Dead?” asked Abel with a quivering mouth.

“And I think that we ought to give him a nice grave and put up a little stone to his memory.”

Thus he tried to distract the boy from his loss.

“We will go at once,” he said, “and choose a beautiful spot in the garden for his grave.  You can take one of those pears and eat it while we search.”

But Abel shook his head.

“Couldn’t eat and him lying dead,” he answered.  He was crying.

They went through the French window from the study.

“Do you know any particular place that he liked?”

Slowly the child’s sorrow lessened in the passing interest of finding the grave.

“You must dig it, please, when you come back from afternoon school.”

Abel suggested spots not practical in the other’s opinion.

“A more secluded site would be better,” he declared.  “He was very fond of shade.  In fact, rather a shady customer himself in his young days.  But not a word against the dead.  His old age was dignified and blameless.  You don’t remember the time when he used to steal chickens, do you?”

“He never did anything wrong that I know of,” said Abel.  “And he always came and padded on my bed of a morning, like as if he was riding a bicycle—­and—­and—­”

He wept again.

“If I thought anybody had poisoned him, I’d poison them,” he said.

“Think no such thing.  He simply died because he couldn’t go on living.  You shall have another cat, and it shall be your own.”

“I don’t want another cat.  I hate all other cats but him.”

They found a spot in a side walk, where lily of the valley grew, and later in the day Abel dug a grave.

Estelle happened to visit Mr. Churchouse and he explained the tragedy.