University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858.

Years hence, if the cable coil, 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 billow 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 house-top, 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 made 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 off 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.”