3. SCENE III.—THE CATASTROPHE.
An hour, it may be, had elapsed, after the morning ramble
of the last scene, during the interview of which we had sought
the retirement of our chamber and communion with God.
“He is our refuge,” and always “a present help in trouble.”
Such was our condition and though we had no adequate conception
of what the cause should be, a trouble seemed ready to
settle down upon our mind. From this we sought relief, only
where relief can be found for an oppressed spirit, at the throne
of grace. Suddenly a busy hum in the street below, fell upon
our ear. On approaching the window to ascertain the cause,
we observed a crowd about the door and a fainting female just
being borne within the house. Almost immediately, as if
moved by a common impulse, the whole village—men, women,
and children—were seen hurriedly crossing the lawn, in the
direction of the cottage.
“What has happened? Some dire event has transpired
to cause this rush of excitement. We will follow, also, and
learn the cause.”
Just then our door opened, and our friend of the morning,
pale and agitated, entered the room.
“What is the matter?” said we. “What has occurred?
For heaven's sake, speak!”
“I am come,” said he, “to ask you, once more, to accompany
me to the cottage. The dreadful drama is near the close,
the bloody denouement of which is terrible to behold.”
“Bloody! do you say? What has happened?”
“Murder has happened,” said he. “Murder, not only
most `foul and unnatural,' but of circumstances so horrible that
the mind trembles to know and think upon them.”
“Who is murdered?” said we; “and who is the murderer?”
“They have just borne the fainting form of Mrs. Wilton
into the house below, but little Alice and the wretched father—
come put on your hat, and let us visit the scene; I came for
you on purpose, because I saw you were so interested in the
welfare of the family. As we go, I will tell you what has come
to pass.”
We immediately started for the cottage.
“The state of the case appears to be about this,” said he,
“as near as we could ascertain, from the incoherent and anguished
speech of poor Mrs. Wilton: the fiend of a father, as
we learn, who was still under the influence of last night's
drunkenness, had sent the little girl to the grocery for more
whiskey; just as we supposed was the case, when we saw her
pass us with the jug in her hand.”
“Where,” said one, “could he have gotten the means to
purchase the poison? would they trust him?”
“O no,” said he. “It appears that on yesterday, while
the miserable drunkard, and more wretched husband and father
was absent at his tavern orgies, Mrs. Wilton, driven to her last
extremity, in order to purchase food for herself and daughter,
sold to a pedlar who passed through the Village, her wedding
ring. This was the last article of any value that remained, and
even this brought but a trifle. Still, it would buy a little bread
—and though she had clung to it, as a remembrance of faded
joys, and wept upon it as a witness of untold sorrows,—the
pressing demands of hunger were not to be resisted, and the
ring, which was placed upon her finger with solemn oaths, now
left it, midst bitter sighs. This transaction, by some means Wilton
found out, and demanded the money. This she refused.
With threats and imprecations, he persisted, and even went so
far as to fetch the axe from the yard, and raise it menacingly
over her head, threatening her life if she continued to refuse.
Alarmed for her safety, at length she yielded, and gave him the
money. Immediately the scanty product of the sacrifice, which
was intended to purchase bread to sustain life, was on the way
to the Grocery, for “
more whiskey,” to produce death. On her
return, it seems, the little girl stumbled against some obstacle in
the path, and unfortunately fell. In her fall, the jug was broken,
and the whiskey spilled. Sensible of the extent of her misfortune,
and the violent wrath which awaited her, little Alice, gathered
up the fragments of the broken jug, in token of her mishap,
and weeping bitterly, made her way, fearful and trembling, into
the presence of her unnatural parent. In a moment he saw the
truth, and maddened into a paroxysm of rage, at his disappointment,
he bounded like a tiger from his seat, and scizing the axe,
with a savage yell swore instant vengeance. Against the child,
his first fury was levelled, who fled out at the back door, pursued
by her father, while the mother, who was equally the
object of his hellish design, escaped through the front of the
house. It is likely the fleetness of little Alice would have
baffled the pursuit of the monster father which she had often
done before, had not her feet become entangled in some brushwood
about the door, which had been placed there for purposes
of fuel. This proved fatal to her life—the murderous axe came
down, and poor little Alice was dead.—A single horrid scream
from the child, reached the fleeing mother's ear, who with a
groan, sank senseless by the road side;—whence she was borne
to the house we left. One stroke of the axe did the deed, and
almost cleft the child in twain. The descending blow struck
her, in a falling condition as it would seem, just at the back of
the head, and passed quite through the neck and breast, dividing
them entirely asunder. Poor child, it was a sight horrible to behold.
No sooner had this fiend in human shape accomplished
this part of his design, than he rushed back into the house
again, to finish his work upon his abused and devoted wife,
—Fortunately she was not there. Disappointed of the chosen
subject of his vengeance, his next purpose seemed to be to select
some object, animate or inanimate, upon which to wreak his
fury. A portrait of Mrs. Wilton, painted by Inman—a beautiful
picture, hung upon the wall of the apartment,—against this
he now launched his wildest and most frantic madness. It is said
that the frenzied soul, which under the influence of alcoholic
madness steeps itself in murder, knows neither mercy nor remorse.
One broad cut appeared in the face of the portrait, but
in the effort to inflict a second blow, the head of the axe struck
the ceiling of the room,—being lifted too high,—and glancing
struck deep into the side of his own head and neck, severing
the main artery, and producing instant death.
“This is the apartment,” said our friend,—“and there you
see he lies, in the centre of the floor weltering in his blood,—
with the fatal axe still in his grasp;—and just over him the indentation
in the ceiling.—And there too they have laid the body
of little Alice.—Great God, what a sight is here?—This also is
the work of the bottle,—the legitimate fruits of `something a
little stronger.' ”
Let us turn aside from this place of terrors. Horrors thicken
fast,—they rise like the whelming tide, and mock at rest.—
The very currents of the heart curdle and chill, and the pulses
pause in fear, among scenes like these. And this is the end of
that beginning, which was so bright and joyful, and so full of
promise. Like the coiled adder at the bottom of a lucid fountain,
poisoning its sweet waters with the virus of death, is the
spirit of the still, midst the springs of life. Who would have
said seven years ago, that this would be the end of William
Wilton,—the accomplished, the generous and the just.—But so
it is—the tempter was busy—and the fire streams were full,—
they roll unresisted, and have borne to hell their victim.
It were idle to attempt a description of the scene, which communicated
to the bereaved and distracted wife, the terrible
events that had taken place. Scream answered to swoon,—and
swoon succeeded scream,—following close upon each other, and
in such rapid succession, that fears were entertained that her reason
would perish, if her life was not also added to the list. But
kind heaven directed otherwise,—her time was not yet. The
next day at an early hour, was the appointed time for the funeral,
which was to take place near the cottage, where the grave
had been already prepared.—Sorrow and gloom held vigil together
that night, in the village of H—.
“John;” said a voice to a servant man, as he was hurrying
through the hall of the Hotel early in the morning,—“who
was that tall old gentleman, that came in the stage last night?”
“I don't know, sir,” said John, “he is the strangest old man
that I ever saw, that's certain. He seems almost like he was
a lunatic.”
“Why so, John?”
“Why sir,” said the servant, “though he had been riding in
the stage for two days without rest or sleep, he did not he
down nor ask for a bed at all, but wandered about the village
all night like a ghost. He asked about the murder down at the
cottage, and while they told him the story, he shook and groaned
as if he had been in an ague fit.—Two or three times he
started off to go down there, and then turned suddenly back
again, afraid I reckon, that he would see the spirit of Wilton.”
“It is certainly he,” said the voice, and the door closed.
“He,” said John, looking for a moment at the closed door,
—yes, it is HE,—and a singular HE he is. I think he is mad.
The assembled village stood round the grave. A large plain
coffin had been provided, which contained the bodies of both
father and daughter—the murderer and the murdered. This, it
is likely would not have been the arrangement, but a sympathetic
commisseration, had suddenly sprung up in the popular mind
on behalf of the wretched murderer, ascribing the horrid deed
rather to madness, than to premeditation. This, without doubt,
was a right view of the subject. It was madness, and of the
worst and most fatal type. A madness, full of horrors, and fit
exponant of the condition of the damned,—the madness of the
Still.
Upon the coffin, in gorey state, lay the fatal axe. The instrument
of the murder, was to be buried with the murderer
and the murdered. A strange “hatchment,” truly, but in strict
keeping with the nature of the scene. The services were short,
solemn and impressive, and as the coffin was lowered to its last
resting-place, the widow sunk upon her knees, and remained
in that situation until the friends had filled the grave. The
tall grey-headed stranger stood unnoticed by her side. As the
crowd was about to disperse, he turned to the mourner, and
with tremulous emotion said, “Alice.” It was like the shock
of a Galvanic battery. She threw back her veil at the sound
of his voice; started to her feet, and with a long, piercing, unearthly
shriek, fell senseless into his arms.
A moment more, and the story was told;—he was her
father, She was dead!
