AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858.
Years hence, if the cable resting far down in the mermaids' home
shall prove a bond of perfect peace between the mother and her child,
thousands will recall the bright summer morning when through the
caverns of the mighty deep the first electric message came, thrilling
the nation's heart, quickening the nation's pulse, and, with the music
of the deep-toned bell and noise of the cannon's roar, proclaiming to
the listening multitude that the isle beyond the sea, and the lands
which to the westward lie, were bound together, shore to shore, by a
strange, mysterious tie. And two there are who, in their happy home,
will oft look back upon that day, that 18th day of August, which gave
to one of Britain's sons as fair and beautiful a bride as e'er went
forth from the New England hills to dwell beneath a foreign sky.
They had not intended to be married so soon, for Margaret would wait
a little longer; but an unexpected and urgent summons home made it
necessary for Mr. Carrollton to go, and so by chance the bridal day
was fixed for the 18th. None save the family were present, and Madam
Conway's tears fell fast as the words were spoken which made them one,
for by those words she knew that she and Margaret must part. But not
forever; for when the next year's autumn leaves shall fall the old
house by the mill will again be without a mistress, while in a
handsome country-seat beyond the sea Madam Conway will demean herself
right proudly, as becometh the grandmother of Mrs. Arthur Carrollton.
Theo, too, and Rose will both be there, for their husbands have so
promised, and when the Christmas fires are kindled on the hearth and
the ancient pictures on the wall take a richer tinge from the ruddy
light, there will be a happy group assembled within the Carrollton
halls; and Margaret, the happiest of them all, will then almost
forget that ever in the Hillsdale woods, sitting at Hagar's feet, she
listened with a breaking heart to the story of her birth.
But not the thoughts of a joyous future could dissipate entirely the
sadness of that bridal, for Margaret was well beloved, and the billows
which would roll ere long between her and her childhood's home
stretched many, many miles away. Still they tried to be cheerful, and
Henry Warner's merry jokes had called forth more than one gay laugh,
when the peal of bells and the roll of drums arrested their attention;
while the servants, who had learned the cause of the rejoicing, struck
up "God Save the Queen," and from an adjoining field a rival choir
sent back the stirring note of "Hail, Columbia, Happy Land." Mrs.
Jeffrey, too, was busy. In secret she had labored at the rent made
by her foot in the flag of bygone days, and now, perspiring at every
pore, she dragged it up the tower stairs, planting it herself upon the
housetop, where side by side with the royal banner it waved in the
summer breeze. And this she did, not because she cared aught for the
cable, in which she "didn't believe" and declared "would never work,"
but because she would celebrate Margaret's wedding-day, and so make
some amends for her interference when once before the "Stars and
Stripes" had floated above the old stone house.
And thus it was, amid smiles and tears, amid bells and drums, and
waving flags and merry song, amid noisy shout and booming guns, that
double bridal day was kept; and when the sun went down it left a glory
on the western clouds, as if they, too, had donned their best attire
in honor of the union.
* * * * *
It is moonlight on the land--glorious, beautiful moonlight. On Hagar's
peaceful grave it falls, and glancing from the polished stone shines
across the fields upon the old stone house, where all is cheerless
now, and still. No life--no sound--no bounding step--no gleeful song.
All is silent, all is sad. The light of the household has departed;
it went with the hour when first to each other the lonesome servants
said, "Margaret is gone."
Yes, she is gone, and all through the darkened rooms there is found no
trace of her, but away to the eastward the moonlight falls upon the
sea, where a noble vessel rides. With sails unfurled to the evening
breeze, it speeds away--away from the loved hearts on the shore which
after that bark, and its precious freight, have sent many a throb of
love. Upon the deck of that gallant ship there stands a beautiful
bride, looking across the water with straining eye, and smiling
through her tears on him who wipes those tears away, and whispers in
her ear, "I will be more to you, my wife, than they have ever been."
So, with the love-light shining on her heart, and the moonlight
shining on the wave, we bid adieu to one who bears no more the name of
Maggie Miller.