Misfortune and misery are very potent in turning people's heads, and drive one person to the lunatic asylum, and another to the morgue or the gallows.When the thing happens, and the father and husband, for all of his love for wife and children and his willingness to work, can get no work to do, it is a simple matter for his reason to totter and the light within his brain go out.And it is especially simple when it is taken into consideration that his body is ravaged by innutrition and disease, in addition to his soul being torn by the sight of his suffering wife and little ones.
'He is a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair, dark, expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair moustache.' This is the reporter's description of Frank Cavilla as he stood in court, this dreary month of September, 'dressed in a much worn gray suit, and wearing no collar.'
Frank Cavilla lived and worked as a house decorator in London.He is described as a good workman, a steady fellow, and not given to drink, while all his neighbors unite in testifying that he was a gentle and affectionate husband and father.
His wife, Hannah Cavilla, was a big, handsome, light-hearted woman.She saw to it that his children were sent neat and clean (the neighbors all remarked the fact) to the Childeric Road Board School.
And so, with such a man, so blessed, working steadily and living temperately, all went well, and the goose hung high.
Then the thing happened.He worked for a Mr.Beck, builder, and lived in one of his master's houses in Trundley Road, Mr.Beck was thrown from his trap and killed.The thing was an unruly horse, and, as I say, it happened.Cavilla had to seek fresh employment and find another house.
This occurred eighteen months ago.For eighteen months he fought the big fight.He got rooms in a little house on Batavia Road, but could not make both ends meet.Steady work could not be obtained.He struggled manfully at casual employment of all sorts, his wife and four children starving before his eyes.He starved himself, and grew weak, and fell ill.This was three months ago, and then there was absolutely no food at all.They made no complaint, spoke no word;but poor folk know.The housewives of Batavia Road sent them food, but so respectable were the Cavillas that the food was sent anonymously, mysteriously, so as not to hurt their pride.
The thing had happened.He had fought, and starved, and suffered for eighteen months.He got up one September morning, early.He opened his pocket-knife.He cut the throat of his wife, Hannah Cavilla, aged thirty-three.He cut the throat of his first-born, Frank, aged twelve.
He cut the throat of his son, Walter, aged eight.He cut the throat of his daughter, Nellie, aged four.He cut the throat of his youngest-born, Ernest, aged sixteen months.Then he watched beside the dead all day until the evening, when the police came, and he told them to put a penny in the slot of the gas-meter in order that they might have light to see.
Frank Cavilla stood in court, dressed in a much worn gray suit, and wearing no collar.He was a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair, dark, expressive eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair moustache.
