4. IV.
In the united pictures of Paul Veronese and Raphael,
steeped as their colors seem to have been in the
divinest age of Venetian and Roman female beauty, I
have scarcely 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 whom the creations
on the immortal walls of the Pitti 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 colored
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
bred by Indians, and the sight of a Cherokee reminded
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 reappeared, and checking
herself with a sudden feeling at the first step over the
threshold, 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 Mrs.
Ilfrington by an abandonment to joy and frolic which
she had never displayed before—sometimes fairly out-running
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 favor 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
and displeasure, “I should have told you before that
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.
