University of Virginia Library

13. The Poisoned Bride.

A number of years ago, a man by the name of Wallace,
of Scotch descent, emigrated to Texas, and settled at a
small inland village. His family consisted of himself,
wife, daughter, and servant. This daughter, an only
child, was then about eighteen years of age, and very
beautiful—of a graceful figure, regular features, dark hair,
and bright, merry, sparkling black eyes. She had received
a good education, was well accomplished, and soon became
the belle of the place. She had one fault, however—a
fault common to most pretty women—she was a coquette.

Among her numerous admirers was a man some thirty
years of age—tall, dark, and sinister of aspect—of whom
report did not speak altogether favorably. He had come
to the place a short time subsequently to the settlement of
Mr. Wallace, and located himself at the village inn, where
he gave out that he was a man of wealth. Nothing was
known of his history, and there were none who could say
he was not what he represented himself; but there were
many who believed, for various reasons, that he was a professional

gambler. He seemed to have plenty of money,
and, so far as could be seen, conducted himself in an
upright and honorable manner; but still he was not liked;
there was something too stern and forbiding in the man
to make him popular with the people around; and hence
he was regarded with suspicion and distrust, and many
stories were set afloat derogatory to his moral character.
James Vaughan, for so he gave his name, seemed not in
the least disturbed by these evil reports, but continued to
conduct himself as if he believed that all were satisfied
with the report which he gave of himself.

How it was that he first became acquainted with Helen
Wallace, was not known to the gossiping portion of the
village; but they were suddenly surprised to find him
received at the dwelling of her father as a welcome guest;
and it was soon rumored that he was treated by Helen
herself with marked favor.

Time passed on—six months glided away—and still
Vaughan remained at his old quarters; and still his visits
to the house of Mr. Wallace continued, gradually increasing
in frequency, until it was known that scarcely a day
passed without a meeting between him and Helen.

Meantime there were many other gentlemen who called
to see her, and whom she received with polite courtesy;
but Vaughan, it at length became whispered about, was
the favored suitor. She did not deny herself to any; but

he, as a general thing, was her escort wherever she went.
He frequently rode out with her alone, and almost invariably
accompanied her to all the balls, pic-nics, and parties
in the vicinity.

This finally settled the matter in the minds of many;
and it was not strange that a report should go abroad,
whether true or false, that the parties were engaged to
each other for the journey of life. This Vaughan himself
did not contradict, except in a laughing way, which only
tended the more strongly to convince the others of the
truth of their conjectures.

But the persons who had made such wonderful predictions
concerning the future of Helen Wallace, were soon
destined to meet another surprise, which did much to
shake their faith in their own foreknowledge of events; for
one morning it was suddenly discovered, and rapidly
spread abroad to all concerned, that James Vaughan, the
still unknown and unpopular stranger, had disappeared as
mysteriously as he came.

Eager and earnest were the inquiries set on foot, to
know what had become of him. None could tell. The
landlord of the inn, on being questioned, declared that he
had settled his account in good currency, and had stated
that business required his absence—beyond which he knew
nothing—except that he had departed on foot, in the
night, ostensibly for a neighboring town, to take a public

conveyance for parts unknown. The Wallaces could give
no additional information; and Helen herself laughingly
declared that she was not his keeper, and knew not for a
certainty that he would ever return.

Some few of the more wonder-seeking gossips undertook
to raise an excitement, by stating that he had probably
been secretly dealt with, and that his body might sometime
or other mysteriously come to light; but even this supposition,
greatly to their chagrin, was speedily destroyed, by
sending parties to the town in question, where it was
found that James Vaughan mortal, and not James
Vaughan's ghost, had stipulated for a conveyance, and
had taken bodily passage to Nacogdoches. This was all
that could be gleaned, and all that could be known concerning
the man who had been so much talked about; and
the rest, being simply conjecture, soon died out a natural
death.

Three months more passed away, and Helen Wallace
was found to be just as gay and lively as ever—the only
difference to note being, that she now had more suitors
than before. Among these latter there was soon numbered
one, supposed to be more of a favorite than the others, and
who, at the time of Vaughan's departure, was not known
in the village. This was a young man, some five-and-twenty
years of age, of a light complexion, prepossessing
appearance, and agreeable manners, who had recently

come into the place and opened a shop for trade. In that
little village he was dignified by the title of merchant, and
was supposed to be well-to-do in the world, if not absolutely
wealthy.

Henry Cleaveland was a very different personage from
his supposed rival, and made himself popular with all
classes. He, like all the rest, appeared to be smitten with
the charms of the gay Helen; and this time the interested
gossips declared that he ought to be the favorite suitor, and
did all in their power to bring about “the consummation so
devoutly to be wished;” and apparently with success; for
in a few months the report went abroad that he and Helen
were engaged.

He had now become as attentive as his absent rival had
ever been; and at length Helen herself announced that he
was the chosen one, and that a certain day, sometime yet
in the future, was fixed upon for the wedding. This was
confirmed by her own preparations for the great event, and
it was generally believed that the wedding would be a brilliant
affair

Not to dwell upon the matter, we may briefly state, that
the anxiously looked-for day at length arrived, and was as
auspicious of a happy ending as the believers in omens
could have wished. It was near the close of summer, and
the morning beamed as fair and beautiful as the fair and
beautiful bride herself, and the blithe birds sung as gaily

among the leafy trees as if their music had been attuned to
celebrate a day of happiness for all who heard them.

A wedding in those days, and in that section, was oftentimes
a more public affair than in the older and colder
regions of the North. It was a merry-making day, when
both young and old might congregate for festivity, hilarity
and joy. The residence of Mr. Wallace was decorated for
the occasion with evergreens and flowers, and his doors
were thrown open to receive the visitors of the bride elect.
Many servants were called into requisition, and long tables
were spread under arching trees around the dwelling, and
laden with substantial and fanciful viands for the enjoy-of
the guests. But one of these, more beautifully and
elegantly set out than either of the others, stood a little
apart from the rest, and was the table of honor, or the
table of the bride and her immediate friends.

As the day in question advanced toward meridian, the
clergyman appeared—the bride and grooms, with their
immediate attendants, took their places—and then, surrounded
by a large number of interested spectators, the
solemn ceremony was performed which united the happy
couple for life. After this, as soon as the many and cordial
gratulations were over, the bridal train led the way
to the festive board, and all were soon engaged in doing
honor to the hospitality of the provident host.

In the midst of these festivities, when the wines were

beginning to circulate, and toasts were being drank with
smiling faces, and joyousness was pervading the whole
assemblage—at this time, we say, like a dark cloud crossing
the bright sunlight, and casting a shade of gloom over
all—there suddenly appeared upon the scene the unwelcome
person of James Vaughan. Each looked at him in
surprise, and then at each other, with a sort of mysterious
wonder; and then all who could catch a view of the face
of the happy bride, perceived that she had suddenly
become deadly pale, and slightly tremulous, as if through
secret fear.

There was no perceptible change, however, in the
appearance of the new-comer; his features wore the same
stern, cold, forbidding, sinister aspect. With a slight nod
of recognition, he passed one after another of the different
groups, and advanced directly to the table occupied by the
bride, her relatives and attendants. Mr. Wallace arose,
and received him with a sort of constrained politeness, and
introduced him to such other of the company as he now
beheld for the first time. He bowed to each with that
same cold formality which was characteristic of the man;
and then advancing to the bride, he extended his hand,
and said:

“Permit me to congratulate you! You know it was
always my desire to be present at your wedding!”

Her face flushed crimson; and it was observed that she

trembled more than ever as she took his hand and in turn
presented him to him who had now acquired the title of
legal protector. A few civilities were exchanged between
the different parties, and Mr. Vaughan was invited to
become a guest at the board of honor. Room was made
for him on the side of the table opposite the bride, and
matters once more resumed their natural course; but not
with the same freedom and hilarity as before—all parties
seeming to act under deep restraint. If Vaughan noticed
this, he appeared not to do so, but now and then exchanged
a few civil words with those around him, and
altogether conducted himself as one who believed himself
a welcome guest.

At length, taking up a bottle of wine—which, it was
subsequently remembered, he for some time held in his
hand in a peculiar way, though it excited no suspicion at
the time - he said, looking directly at the newly-wedded
pair:

“Will you permit me to drink a toast with you?”

Receiving a quiet assent, he reached over, filled their
glasses, and then his own.

“My sentiment,” he continued, “is one which I know
you will not refuse. Here is happiness through life, and
only separation by death!”

The toast was a little singular, and the word death
seemed mal apropos. Why should it have been uttered

then and there? It was the last word of the sentence—
was pronounced distinctly, thongh without emphasis—but
it unpleasantly fixed the mind upon what nobody cared to
think about during a wedding feast.

The wine was drank in a kind of ominous silence, the
bride turning a shade paler as the ruby liquid passed her
lips; but it was noticed that the giver of the toast only
slightly wet his lips, and, making some apology for his
abstemious habits, set his glass down nearly full.

For a few minutes after this, nothing unusual was perceived.
Conversation in all quarters was resumed; and it
was evident that, in spite of the new presence, the old feeling
of convivality was gradually being restored; when
suddenly Mr. Wallace started up and called out, in a tone
that sent a chill to every heart:

“Good God! what is the matter with Helen?”

The words brought the attention of all directly upon her,
and more than one cry of alarm arose as the different
guests sprung up in confusion.

The bride was indeed deathly pale—her eyes were closed
—her beautiful features were working almost convulsively
—and she was gradually sinking back in her seat and
falling therefrom.

Her husband, turning to her in alarm, was in the act
of reaching out his arm to save her, when he himself was
suddenly seized in the same terrible manner; and both

would have fallen together, had not some of the excited
and now terrified spectators rushed forward and caught
them.

For a few minutes a scene of the wildest confusion
ensued. Young and old came hurrying up from the different
tables, and crowding around in horror; and then,
in a tremulous, fearful, shuddering whisper, dark words
began to float through the collected crowd, and gradually
swell out into one long, loud, wild, chilling, heart-piercing
wail:

“They are poisoned! poisoned! poisoned!”

Then suddenly uprose another, a louder, and a wilder
yell—the out-bursting shriek for vengeance, quick and
terrible, upon the inhuman author of the dark and damnable
deed.

But he was gone—James Vaughan was gone,—amid
the awful excitement and confusion he had suddenly disappeared.
Yet he must not escape!—the very earth
would groan to hold upon her fair bosom such a monster!

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,” indeed!
with sounds of joy all changed to shrieks of woe! and
sounds of merriment to yells of vengeance! Some ran
away in horror, some wrung their hands with irrepressible
grief, some hurried to seek medical aid, and others flew to
arm themselves and follow the damnable author of all this
misery.

We need not prolong the tale of woe. Three days later
a solemn funeral procession wound slowly through that
mourning village, following that lovely bride and her noble
husband to their last dark and narrow home. But long
ere the clods of the valley fell upon their coffins—“united
in life, and in death not divided”—the breeze of the forest
swayed to and fro the dangling body of their inhuman murderer,
whom summary vengeance had overtaken, and sent,
“all unanointed and unaneled,” to his awful reckoning in
the eternal world!