University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
SCENE IN THE CHURCH AND IN THE GRAVEYARD.

It was a bright enlivening Sunday morning, and the
bishop preached to a full congregation. More than fifty
candidates for the holy rite of confirmation were grouped
around him, making the scene solemn and impressive; and
the effect produced by the consideration that such a number
of citizens and sojourning strangers in the village were
eagerly awaiting the imposition of the apostolic hands,
was not greater upon any one than the bishop himself.
He had already officiated on several similar occasions in
the same church, during that year; and such evidences of
the success of his unremitting labours, and of the zeal and
activity of the numerous subordinate clergymen under his
immediate superintendence, could not be otherwise than
extremely gratifying to his feelings. Hence, perhaps, the
influence of the hour stirred the fountains of thought more

deeply than on ordinary occasions, and imparted to his
gestures, his words, and his looks an indescribable animation,
electric, though subdued; gentle, though irresistible;
which touched a sympathetic chord in every breast.
His words were the echoes of his gigantic thoughts;
his thoughts the undeniable products of an original genius
of the highest order; his genius, the gift of God;
and hence the inspiration of his speech. No one who
listened on that occasion, could have doubted the truth of
his words; none could have controverted the holy origin of
the church, or cavilled at the propriety of its sacred ordinances.
The surpassing sermon; the mute multitude; the
attending priests and deacons; the hundreds of youths
and maidens from the collegiate institutions, all profoundly
silent and intently listening, constituted one of those
scenes which can never be wholly obliterated from the memory.

Susan, Ned, and Charles were present, the latter pale
and feeble. Elgiva, who held a magnificent bouquet culled
freshly from her own hot-house, was observed several times
to be gazing in sorrow at the stricken youth. She had
mentioned the fact of his resemblance of Viola to several of
her friends, and now they too perceived it. And Viola had
been so dear to her, that she could not avoid entertaining
a vague partiality for Charles, which, however, she was
sure could not be love; for, from the first moment she beheld
his face, she felt a conviction that he too was doomed
to an early grave.

At the conclusion of the services and ceremonies, Charles
escaped from his friends, and withdrew, no one knew
whither. Elgiva lingered in the transept until most of
the congregation had departed. Her object was to avoid
the attentions of several young gentlemen who had recently
appeared to be vying with each other in a contest for her
favour, and of course her hand and fortune. None of
them, however, seemed to be destined to captivate her
fancy.

But the young gentlemen awaited her egress, and accosted
her at the door. They were, however, to be disappointed;
for when one of them ventured to admire the
bouquet she held, she immediately declared it was her intention

to scatter the blossoms upon the grave of Viola. They
knew she preferred being alone on such occasions, and so
they departed, while the Rev. Mr. F., with his tasselled
square-crowned cap reverently lifted from his head, threw
open the gate leading to the city of the dead, and she
passed in, acknowledging his respectful bow and polite
attention. The reverend gentleman then joined a number
of other officers of the college, picturesquely gowned and
capped like himself, and representing most of the principal
nations of Europe, whose languages were taught in the
Summerton institutions.

Elgiva walked briskly, almost hurriedly, and was soon
hidden from view by the many evergreens tastefully suffered
to grow in the sacred precinct, and whose perennial green
seemed to indicate that if “in life we are in the midst of
death,” there is likewise an existence beyond the grave. She
came suddenly upon the place where the friend of her girlhood
had been laid; and even before she raised her eyes
from the ground she had scattered the flowers over the
turf. Then she was startled by a deep sigh heard in her
immediate vicinity, and lifting her eyes, beheld Charles,
half hidden by the branches of a cedar tree which projected
over the grave, leaning upon the tall stone, with his
head bowed down on his breast, and altogether unconscious
of her presence.

So unexpected was the encounter, that Elgiva could not
wholly suppress the throbbing palpitations which agitated
her breast; and she was upon the eve of turning away, and
endeavoring to retire from the place without being observed,
when Charles lifted his face, pale, and moist from
recent tears. Their eyes met.

“I did not know you were here, sir; I did not obtrude
intentionally; for this tree intervened between me and the
grave, as I approached,” said Elgiva.

“Nor did I design to meet you here,” said Montague.
“I thought it was an hour when no one else would wander
in this direction; and it was not your step which roused
me, for I did not hear the slightest sound: it was the perfume
of these beautiful roses.” He smiled sweetly as he
pointed towards the roses on the ground.

And you—although there are no flowers readily accessible—I

see, came not hither without the customary tribute
of laurels. Yes, Mr. Montague, you are the mysterious
one who has so long been in the habit of visiting this grave
without being discovered; you do not deny it.”

“No—I will not deny it. There can be nothing criminal
in casting a few leaves upon the grave of one who
was as good as she was beautiful, and as pure as the angels
of heaven!”

“Why—sir! Did you know her?” asked Elgiva, remarking
with interest the extraordinary degree of animation
fitfully illuminating the features of the young man.

“Oh, yes!” replied Charles, mournfully, suddenly relapsing
into a state of despondency. “I knew her well,
and—”

“Loved her?” asked Elgiva, so softly, so timidly, as if
conscious of the impropriety of such an interrogation, but
at the same time with such a tenderness of sympathy for
the survivor, and such as evidence of sisterly affection for
the early dead, that the words only seemed like the echoes
of the low whispers of his own heart.

“Fondly! Oh, how fondly!” said he.

“And did you not enjoy her affection?”

“Oh, yes! I was the only one left her to love—”

“Only one? Why, Mr. Montague!”

“There were none left to love and cherish poor Viola—
none but me!”

“None? none but you? Sir, I loved her, living; dead,
I cherish her memory. Else why have I never ceased
to—”

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me! I meant there were none
other than myself whose affection she might claim. Yes!
you were her friend—and may heaven reward you! And
if an angel may solicit blessings at the eternal throne, she
will shower them down upon you! I often see her in my
dreams descending with flowery wreaths in her hands.
One she fixes upon my brow, and one upon yours.”

Again the young man, although his face assumed the
livid hue of death, became enthusiastic in his voice and
gestures. And his aspect, together with the singularity of
his speech, filled the breast of Elgiva with startling apprehensions;
but, as if under the influence of an irresistible
attraction, she could hardly summon the will to depart.

“But, sir,” said she, pursuing the thought which had not
ceased to occupy her mind since listening to the declaration
made by Montague, “it seems very wonderful to me that,
being long upon terms of intimacy with Viola—an intimacy
without reserve—I should never have heard her mention
your name. I knew she had a step-father whom she did
not love, and that her mother yielded to his caprices—that
she had a brother whom she adored, with whom alone I
supposed she corresponded—but no other name was mentioned,
and I did not think it possible—but—but yonder
is my carriage, and they call me. I should like much to
speak further on this subject—and I hope you—you—”
she said no more, but returning his bow, departed.