 | IV. Inklings of adventure |  |
4. IV.
In the united pictures of Paul Veronese and Raphael,
steeped as their colours seem to have been
in the divinest age of Venetian and Roman female
beauty, I have scarce found so many lovely women,
of so different models and so perfect, as were assembled
during my Sophomore year under the roof of
Mrs. Ilfrington. They went about in their evening
walks, graceful and angelic, but, like the virgin pearls
of the sea, they poured the light of their loveliness on
the vegetating oysters about them, and no diver of fashion
had yet taught them their value. Ignorant myself
in those days of the scale of beauty, their features
are enamelled in my memory, and I have tried insensibly
by that standard (and found wanting) of every
court in Europe the dames most worshipped and highest
born. Queen of the Sicilies, loveliest in your own
realm of sunshine and passion! Pale and transparent
Princess—pearl of the court of Florence—than
less discipline our eye for the shapes of heaven! Gipsy
of the Pactolus! Jewess of the Thracian Gallipolis!
Bright and gifted cynosure of the aristocracy of
England!—ye are five women I have seen in as many
years' wandering over the world, lived to gaze upon,
and live to remember and admire—a constellation, I
almost believe, that has absorbed all the intensest light
of the beauty of a hemisphere—yet, with your pictures
coloured to life in my memory, and the pride of rank
and state thrown over most of you like an elevating
charm, I go back to the school of Mrs. Ilfrington, and
(smile if you will!) they were as lovely, and stately,
and as worthy of the worship of the world.
I introduced St. John to the young ladies as they
came in. Having never seen him, except in the presence
of men, I was a little curious to know whether
his singular aplomb would serve him as well with
the other sex, of which I was aware he had had a
very slender experience. My attention was distracted
at the moment of mentioning his name to a lovely
little Georgian, (with eyes full of the liquid sunshine
of the south,) by a sudden bark of joy from the dog,
who had been left in the hall; and as the door opened,
and the slight and graceful Indian girl entered
the room, the usually unsocial animal sprang bounding
in, lavishing caresses on her, and seemingly wild
with the delight of a recognition.
In the confusion of taking the dog from the room, I
had again lost the moment of remarking St. John's
manner, and on the entrance of Mrs. Ilfrington, Nunu
was sitting calmly by the piano, and my friend was
talking in a quiet undertone with the passionate
Georgian.
“I must apologize for my dog,” said St. John, bowing
gracefully to the mistress of the house; “he was
him of happier days—as it did his master.”
Nunu turned her eyes quickly upon him, but immediately
resumed her apparent deep study of the
abstruse figures in the Kidderminster carpet.
“You are well arrived, young gentlemen,” said
Mrs. Ilfrington, “we press you into our service for a
botanical ramble. Mr. Slingsby is at leisure, and will
be delighted, I am sure. Shall I say as much for
you, Mr. St. John?”
St. John bowed, and the ladies left the room for
their bonnets, Mrs. Ilfrington last. The door was
scarcely closed when Nunu re-appeared, and checking
herself with a sudden feeling at the first step over
the threshhold, stood gazing at St. John, evidently
under very powerful emotion.
“Nunu!” he said, smiling slowly and unwillingly,
and holding out his hand with the air of one who
forgives an offence.
She sprang upon his bosom with the bound of a
leveret, and between her fast kisses broke the endearing
epithets of her native tongue, in words that I
only understood by their passionate and thrilling accent.
The language of the heart is universal.
The fair scholars came in one after another, and
we were soon on our way through the green fields to
the flowery mountain-side of East Rock; Mrs. Ilfrington's
arm and conversation having fallen to my share,
and St. John rambling at large with the rest of the
party, but more particularly beset by Miss Temple,
whose Christian name was Isabella, and whose Christian
charity had no bowels for broken hearts.
The most sociable individuals of the party for a while
were Nunu and Lash; the dog's recollections of the
past seeming, like those of wiser animals, more
agreeable than the present. The Cherokee astonished
which she had never displayed before, sometimes
fairly outrunning the dog at full speed, and sometimes
sitting down breathless upon a green bank,
while the rude creature overpowered her with his
caresses. The scene gave origin to a grave discussion
between that well-instructed lady and myself,
upon the singular force of childish association—the
extraordinary intimacy between the Indian and the
trapper's dog being explained satisfactorily (to her,
at least) on that attractive principle. Had she but
seen Nunu spring into the bosom of my friend half
an hour before, she might have added a material
corollary to her proposition. If the dog and the
chief's daughter were not old friends, the chief's
daughter and St. John certainly were.
As well as I could judge by the motions of two people
walking before me, St. John was advancing fast in
the favour and acquaintance of the graceful Georgian.
Her southern indolence was probably an apology in
Mrs. Ilfrington's eyes for leaning heavily on her companion's
arm; but, in a momentary halt, the capricious
beauty disembarrassed herself of the bright scarf that
had floated over her shoulders, and bound it playfully
around his waist. This was rather strong on a first
acquaintance, and Mrs. Ilfrington was of that opinion.
“Miss Temple!” said she, advancing to whisper a
reproof in the beauty's ear.
Before she had taken a second step, Nunu bounded
over the low hedge, followed by the dog with whom
she had been chasing a butterfly, and springing upon
St. John with eyes that flashed fire, she tore the scarf
into shreds, and stood trembling and pale, with her
feet on the silken fragments.
“Madam!” said St. John, advancing to Mrs. Ilfrington,
after casting on the Cherokee a look of surprise
your pupil and myself are not new acquaintances.
Her father is my friend. I have hunted with the tribe,
and have hitherto looked upon Nunu as a child. You
will believe me, I trust, when I say her conduct surprises
me, and I beg to assure you that any influence
I may have over her will be in accordance with your
own wishes exclusively.”
His tone was cold, and Nunu listened with fixed
lips and frowning eyes.
“Have you seen her before since her arrival?” asked
Mrs. Ilfrington.
“My dog brought me yesterday the first intelligence
that she was here. He returned from his morning
ramble with a string of wampum about his neck, which
had the mark of the tribe. He was her gift,” he added,
patting the head of the dog, and looking with a softened
expression at Nunu, who dropped her head upon
her bosom and walked on in tears.
| IV. Inklings of adventure | |