CHAPTER XLVII.
Next morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the hotel to the Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a young man who was walking exactly in front of him with a great bouquet of violets in his hand. He was young, handsome, and well-dressed, and the continual salutes he received as he moved along testified that he was well known in Florence. The old man’s eye (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him with a certain pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there could be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s salutations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, or marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, in Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular.
Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this impersonation of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no doubt he was a nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those families which had kept in the good graces of the country, by what these benighted nations considered patriotism. A fine young fellow—perhaps with something like a career before him, now that Italy was holding up her head again among the nations—altogether an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of those well-born and well-conditioned beings whom every man with good blood in his own veins feels more or less proud of. Such were the thoughts of the old English man of the world, as he took his way in the Winter sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece.
It was a bright cold morning—a white rim of snow on the Apennines gave a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller heights on the other side of Arno there was green enough to keep Winter in subjection. The sunshine was as warm as Summer; very different from the dreary dirty weather which Mr. Courtenay had left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, though Piccadilly sometimes is as bright as the Lung-Arno. Though he was as old as Methuselah in Kate’s eyes, this ogre of a guardian was not so old in his own. And he had once been young, and when young had been in Florence; and he had a flower in his button-hole and no overcoat, which made him happy. And though he was perplexed, he could not but feel that the worst that he been threatened with had not come true, and that perhaps the story was false altogether, and he was to escape without trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay walk very lightly along the sunny pavement, pleased with himself, and disposed to be pleased with other people; and the same amiable feelings directed his eyes towards the young Italian, and gave him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine young fellow; straight and swift he marched along, and would have distanced the old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded him. Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth whom he had been admiring enter the doorway to which he was himself bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he climbed the stairs towards the second floor where his niece lived, he overheard a lively conversation at Mrs. Anderson’s very door.
‘Amica mia, I hope your beautiful young lady is better,’ said the young man. ‘Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miserable I have been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by this hard-hearted lady-aunt. You will say, cara mia, that it is the Lady Caryisfort who sends the flowers, and that I am desolated—desolated!—and all that comes into your good heart to say. For you understand—I am sure you understand.’
‘Oh, yes, I understand, Signor Cont’ Antonio,’ said Francesca. ‘Trust to me, I know what to say. She is not very happy herself, the dear little Signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other young lady with her lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young gentleman, it is not bad for you. When one sees another loved, one wishes to be loved one’s self; but it is hard for Mees Katta. She will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s flowers and his message.’
‘But take care, Francesca mia, you must say they are from my Lady Caryisfort,’ said Count Antonio, ‘and lay me at the feet of my little lady. I hunger—I thirst—I die to see her again! Will she not see my Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? The new prima donna has come, and has made a furore. Tell her so, cara mia. Francesca make her to come out, that I may see her. You will stand my friend—you were always my friend.’
‘The Signor Conte forgets what I have told him; that I am as a connection of the family. I will do my very best for him. Hist! hush! oh, miserecordia! Ecco il vecchio!’ cried Francesca, under her breath.
Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect he had not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning about il vecchio altogether. The young man turned and faced him as he reached the landing. He was a handsome young fellow, with dark eyes, which were eloquent enough to get to any girl’s heart. Mr. Courtenay felt towards him as an old lady in the best society might feel, did she see her son in the fatal clutches of a penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an heiress made, as it were, a man of her, and transferred all the female epithets of ‘wilful’ and ‘designing’ to the other side. Antonio, with the politeness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let the older man pass. ‘Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded politeness,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself—indeed, he used a stronger word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to repeat. He made no response to the young Italian’s politeness, but pushed on, hat on head, after the vigorous manner of the Britons. ‘Who are these for?’ he asked, gruffly, indicating with his stick the bunch of violets which made the air sweet.
‘For ze young ladies, zare,’ said Francesca, demurely, as she ushered him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room.