The Signora. A tale

Front matter

BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE MASK AND THE MAN. Crown 8vo. 65. The British Weekly. — ' Very rarely has one the pleasure of lighting upon so thoroughly satisfactory a piece of work. ... To every reader of this excellent novel great and unalloyed pleasure may confidently be proinistd.* STANHOPE OF CHESTER : a Mystery. Crown 8vo. Gs.; and fcp. 8vo. pictorial boards, "2s. ; or limp red cloth, '2s. Gd. The Daily Chronicle. — * Any person wishing to remain very wide awake during the small hours must begin this story about 11 p.m., and in an hour bed will have lost all its temptations.* London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. A TALE BY PERCY ANDREAE AUTHOR OF 'STANHOPE OF CHESTER: A MYSTERY*" ' THE MASK AND THE MAN ' ETC. LONDON SMITH, ELDEE, & CO., 15 WATEELOO PLACE 1895 [All rights reserved] THE SIGNOEA

Chapter I

At a distance of about three hours from one of the most frequented spots in the Bavarian Tyrol, lies a pretty village, snugly ensconced in the bosom of a quiet valley which is situated at an altitude of about 5,000 feet above the level of the sea. Although by no means difficult of access, the valley lies quite out of the beaten track of tourists and mountain climbers, in consequence of which visits from the outside world are very few and far between. In fact, it may be doubted if one in ten thousand of those who visit the Tyrol during the summer season ever finds his way to this secluded spot. At an early hour one afternoon, towards the end of an unusually hot summer, such a rara avis might have been seen entering the little village from the south side, with the evident intention of passing on to the hills beyond.

To all outward seeming, the wanderer belonged to the class of ordinary tourists with which B THE SIGNOEA the Tyrolese mountains swarm during the months of July, August, and September. He was clad in the dress commonly affected by the mountaineering fra ternity, i.e., the Norfolk jacket, with knickerbockers and stockings to match, the alpenstock and the knapsack. As he strode through the village with quick and vigorous footsteps, his attention was attracted to a group of peasants, of both sexes, clustered together upon a small patch of village green, where, to judge from their attitude of fixed attention, and the occasional upraising of their voices, which the wind wafted across to him, some unusual scene seemed to be enacting. Curious to know what was going on, he turned off from the road and proceeded to cross the green in the direction of the group.

But before he had reached it, a sudden movement took place among those nearest to him, and the next instant a young girl, to all appearance barely twelve years of age, darted from their midst, followed by a big, burly man armed with a thick cudgel. The child, in her anxiety to escape, stumbled and fell, and before our friend had time to realise what was passing, the brutal fellow had seized her, and was dealing blow upon blow with his cudgel upon her delicate young frame. The circle of onlookers again closed round the two, and hid them from view, but only for an instant. Like a flash of lightning the young tourist dashed across the green into the midst of the group, and the next moment the child's tormentor lay sprawling on the grass, where a well-directed blow from an expert English fist had sent him.

Twice he rose, and twice he went down again, felled by the same unerring hand. But it would take more blows to finally settle a Tyrolese peasant than even so well-trained an arm as that of the young tourist could deal without fear of dislocating the limb. The third time the man rose he had grown wise from experience. He evaded his antagonist's fist, and, rushing at him with his head down wards, closed with him. "Wrestling is a favourite pastime with the peasants of the Tyrol, nor are their matches by any means mere contests of muscular strength. They cultivate wrest ling as an art, though a rude art. The young stranger was soon aware that if he was to issue victorious from the struggle, it would require all his sang-froid, the straining of ever available muscle, and the practice of all the wiles known to the trained wrestler to do so.

Still, he felt equal to the task. In respect of sheer brute strength he well knew his opponent had the advantage of him, but in a contest of this description, superior strength avails but little when pitted against natural agility and the fertility of resource common to the accomplished athlete ; and such was the young stranger. For a minute at least it appeared as if the burly rustic, whose tremendous muscles were strained to their very utmost in his endeavour to overthrow his opponent, B would have an easy task to accomplish. And, indeed, the young man's aim seemed concentrated rather upon warding off defeat than upon securing a victory. The peasant was evidently conscious of his advantage, and renewed his efforts to hurl his antagonist to the ground with a vigour that bordered upon fury.

The lithe form of the young stranger seemed utterly powerless in the vice-like grip of the enraged fellow. The couple swayed hither and thither, changing ground almost every second, yet the contest appeared no nearer a final decision than at its outset. Suddenly it seemed as if the stranger's foot stumbled, and his arms slightly relaxed their hold round the body of his opponent. The latter saw his opportunity in a moment. Gather ing all his strength into a last effort, he hurled himself forward, bringing the whole weight of his body to bear with tremendous impetus upon the slim frame of the stranger. The onset was terrific. But the man had miscalculated his direction, and before he had time to recover his equilibrium, he was lifted bodily into the air like a feather and dashed to the ground with a force that would have broken every bone in the body of an ordinary mortal.

The great hulking fellow lay there like a bundle of old clothes, half stunned and utterly conquered, while his victor turned with eager interest to the child for whom he had fought, and who had followed the struggle with distended eyes and clasped hands in the kneeling position to which she had risen when her young champion intervened between her and her brutal aggressor. ' Are you much hurt, child ? ' he inquired, and then, as he received no answer, he lifted her up and set her on her feet. ' Why did he beat you ? ' he continued. ' Is he your father ? ' But the girl returned no answer. Her hands were still clasped before her, and her large brown eyes were riveted upon his face. He repeated the question, and stroked her head kindly, but still she was silent, and her gaze remained fixed upon him as before.

She seemed not to comprehend him. He turned to the bystanders, who had gathered round him, stolid and indifferent as they had been during the ill-treatment of the girl, and during the fight that had ensued. ' Whose is the child ? ' he asked. ' Why doesn't she speak ? ' There was a slight movement among the crowd of rustics, who appeared half surprised, half amused at the question. At length a voice responded : ' She'd speak if she could, poor lass, but she's tongue-tied.' Our friend glanced at the speaker, a middle-aged peasant, with a rough but good-natured countenance. ' Tongue-tied ? ' he exclaimed, incredulously. Then, recollecting that he had not heard the child utter a sound whilst she was being beaten, he added, interro gatively, ' Is she a deaf mute, then ? ' A group of nodding heads answered affirmatively. ' Poor little thing,' he murmured, as he placed his hand upon the child's head, and looked at her with a glance full of compassion.

A scarcely perceptible tremor passed through the little frame, and from her large brown eyes, which were still uplifted to his face, two tears trickled slowly down. It was evident that she had understood and appreciated his meaning. The young man turned away with a gesture of pity. Meanwhile his antagonist of erstwhile had risen to his feet, and was shaking off the effects of his violent colli sion with mother earth. The dark scowl which he bestowed upon his vanquisher showed pretty plainly that, if nature had permitted, he would have gladly renewed the contest on the spot. But there was no more fight left in him — a fact which was evidently a source of unmixed satisfaction to his fellow-villagers. The man was evidently the champion bully of the place, and had been respected accordingly. From what the young tourist could gather, he was the foster-father of the little deaf-mute child, whatever that might mean, and fulfilled his guardianship by alternately neglecting and chastising her.

In imparting this information the good village-folk gave vent to what was for them an unwonted display of indignation, though but a few minutes before they had remained passive spectators of the brutalities they were now stigmatising. The young man, to whom their remarks were addressed, thought it well, in the interest of the poor child, to state in the hearing of its so-called foster-father, that he would be passing through the village again the next day on his return from the hills beyond, and, having inquired the nearest route to his intended destination, he regained the road he had left, and, striking out in the direction that had been given him, soon left the village behind him. The object of his journey was a mountain peak, situated at a distance of about four hours from the little village.

The way thither — if way it could be called, for the road only continued a few hundred yards after passing the last village habitation — lay through a thick wood of pine trees, which covered a steep incline to the left of the village. Passing thence through a small ravine, it led up to a kind of rocky, high plateau, along which it continued, gradually ascending, until brought to an abrupt termination by an immense mass of rock rising almost perpendicularly, and forming what, to an inexperienced eye, must have seemed an all but impass able barrier to further progress. It was at this spot, however, that the ascent began in real earnest. After quitting the village, the young traveller pushed forward on his way with redoubled vigour. The incident on the village green had delayed him quite half an hour, and it was then close upon four in the afternoon, so that he had no time left if he wished to reach his journey's end before nightfall.

Besides, the weather was begin ning to look threatening. Heavy clouds had gathered in the south-west, and the prospect of a storm in a lonely region, where paths are unknown and precipices abound, was not pleasant. He had not proceeded beyond a couple of miles when he heard footsteps behind him, and, looking back, saw the little deaf and dumb child in whose behalf he had intervened on the village green trudging along at a distance of about fifty yards behind him. His first im pulse was to stop and elicit from her some further in formation with regard to her relationship to the man whom he had seen ill-treating her. But he remembered that it would be somewhat difficult to make himself understood, and, recognising the necessity of avoiding any further delay, he changed his mind, and, continuing on his journey, dismissed the child and her history from his thoughts.

Half an hour later he had arrived at the foot of the rocky height which formed the first and most serious obstacle to the ascent he contemplated. As he paused, silently measuring the formidable task that lay before him, he felt a hand laid timidly on his arm, and, turning round, saw the little deaf mute, who must have been following in his footsteps ever since he left the village, a good hour ago. ' Why, bless the child,' he exclaimed. ' What are you doing here all alone in these lonely regions ? ' But, of course, she could not hear what he said, nor did she evince any sign that she had understood him. She was regarding him attentively with her intelligent eyes, into which there had now crept an expression of alarm, which he noticed without giving it further thought. ' Go home, child,' he said, ' this is no place for you.' And, making her a sign that he wished her to go back, he slipped a small coin into her hand and turned away.

She took the coin mechanically, but at the same time laid her hand again on his arm, as if she wished to detain him. It was evident she had something she desired to communicate to him, but beyond eliciting that she wanted to warn him against some danger, he failed to ascertain the precise nature of what she in tended to convey. That she was endeavouring to dis suade him from proceeding was apparent ; but he was too little versed in the methods of transmitting thought peculiar to the dumb to understand her. At last, growing impatient at his own inability to fathom her meaning, he signed to her once more to go back, and, nodding in kindly recognition of her solicitude for his safety, started in earnest to climb the rock. The girl watched his ascent from below, without stirring, until, after ten minutes climbing, he disappeared round a ledge of rock abutting from the side of the hill, and was lost to her view.

A moment afterwards, she cast a rapid glance at the sky behind her, and clamber ing nimbly as a goat up the steep rocks, followed him in the same direction. The young man was an experienced climber, well accustomed to the ordinary dangers of mountaineering, and he regarded his present undertaking as mere child's play in comparison with certain alpine exploits in which he had played a prominent part. He had not proceeded very far, however, before the solution of the mystery of his little dumb friend's behaviour presented itself to him in an unmistakable form. The summit of the hill he was climbing, as he now saw on rounding the vast abutment of rock which had hidden the mountain itself from his view, was wrapped in a thick cloud of mist, which was slowly descending towards the valley beneath.

Almost before he had time to realise his position, the cloud was upon him, and he was sur rounded by a fog so thick that he could scarcely see two paces in front of him. The effect was so sudden that it fairly took his breath away. He comprehended now what his little friend had so vainly striven to convey to him. She had covered her eyes with her hand and mimicked the movements of a blind person groping his way about. Her action had puzzled him, but he understood it now. She had rightly gauged the character of the gathering clouds, and knew that their course was downwards, and that in a short time the whole range of hills would be enveloped in mist. ' Poor little wretch,' he ejaculated mentally, as he recognised that in a few minutes the plateau he had just left would be reached and engulfed by the rapidly falling cloud, ' She will never find her way back in this dense fog.' As for himself, he hardly knew what to do.

To attempt to return whence he had come, would be sheer madness. No one could have hoped to accomplish such a descent in the prevailing circumstances, without the intervention of a miracle. Yet to push forward was a scarcely less difficult undertaking. Even in clear weather the ascent was attended with considerable risk. Every step had to be calculated, every foothold carefully tested, before reliance could be placed upon it. The slightest false step, he well knew, might precipitate him to a depth of six or seven hundred feet, for at the point where he now stood the rugged hill-side de scended far below the plateau into the valley beneath. For full ten minutes he stood revolving his position in his mind and considering what he should do. The mist might not rise for hours, even days. To remain where he was, therefore, cramped against the steep rock, with scarcely more than a few inches of ground under his feet, was out of the question.

A little higher up perhaps he might find a larger surface to rest upon, where, if need be, he could lie down and await the dispersal of the clouds. With good luck he might even reach the top of the rock, whence his further progress, though difficult, would be less perilous, for his way then lay for some distance along a flat ridge which connected the rocks he was now scaling with the mountain peak beyond. This ridge, which widened out as it ascended in an easy slope towards the crest of the hill, would, he knew, lead him to one of those grassy alps which relieve the fierce monotony of these rugged heights with their patches of green pasturage and the motley herds of cattle which feed upon them during the summer-time. In one of the rude huts with which these bits of grassland are dotted, and in which the herdsmen, or herdswomen, as is more often the case, take up their solitary abode during the warm months of the year, he had reckoned on passing the night, prior to accomplishing the remainder of his expedition to the summit of the hill at sunrise the next day.

The vision of such a shelter for the night, and a comfortable resting-place, if only of straw, rose up temptingly before him, and he resolved to proceed at all risks. Slowly and carefully he started on his hazardous journey. The mist seemed to grow thicker with every minute, and to add to his discomfort a fine drizzling rain now commenced to fall, penetrating his clothes and wetting him to the skin. Still, he made satisfactory progress, and after a quarter of an hour's climbing he had reached a grassy ledge covering an area of about six square feet, on which, had he been so inclined, he might have rested in safety until the weather cleared. Well for him had he done so. But he shrank from passing the night, and perhaps also the following day, on this narrow strip of soil, with no food beyond a few dry biscuits and the little flask of cognac which his satchel contained, and with do more protection from the penetrating fog than his light mountain costume afforded him.

Besides, the success which had attended him until now encouraged him to proceed farther, and, after taking a few minutes' rest on the sloping grass, he once more planted his alpenstock in the ground, and, swinging himself on to a tier of moss-covered stones projecting above, continued his giddy ascent. According to his calculations, the summit could not be more than a couple of hundred feet above this ledge, and, once safely there, he was assured that all danger would be over. Under ordinary circumstances, he could have easily reached the top in about twenty minutes, but matters now were very different. He possessed no means of ascertaining which was his safest course, and the direction he took could only be chosen at haphazard. He had mounted thus in zigzag fashion for some little time, without meeting any considerable difficulties, and was already congratulating himself on the com parative facility of the ascent, when he was suddenly brought to a standstill by what appeared to be an immense boulder of rock jutting out several yards from the hillside.

It rose like a compact wall at least twelve feet in height, and obstructed his passage in such a manner that he could neither scale it nor circum vent it. He recognised at a glance that the obstacle was an insuperable one, and that nothing was left to him but to retrace his steps and try the ascent from the opposite side. The task was perilous in the extreme. Every rock and stone was now dripping with moisture, and wherever any soil had accumulated, or a patch of moss had grown, it had been rendered slippery as ice by the falling rain. In spite of this the young traveller did not lose heart. He had faced dangers before, quite equal, if not similar, to what he was now undergoing, and he never allowed himself to doubt for one moment that he would emerge safely from his present adventure. But his downward course was attended by a difficulty upon which he had not counted.

The ground was covered with loose rocks and stones, which were evidently the remains of a landslip that had taken place here ages ago, and some of which, set in motion by his tread, rolled down after him, occasioning him no incon siderable inconvenience. Suddenly a whole cluster of these stones, set free in like manner, came rolling upon him. One of the largest struck against his foot in its descent, causing him to lose his balance. He clutched at a piece of rock overhead to save himself from falling, but it was either too slippery to afford him the desired hold, or yielded under the strain of his grasp, he knew not which, and the next moment he felt as if the ground had given way beneath him, and he fell backwards into the depths below. A wild cry of despair rose up, followed by two heavy thuds, as his body struck against some object in its fall.

Then all was silent. The wind continued to drive the blinding clouds across the hills, enveloping every crag and cranny in mist and fog, and hiding sky and earth alike from view. Nature herself for the time seemed blotted out of existence.

Chapter II

It was ten days after the events related in the foregoing chapter, that the following telegram reached Dr. Schwerthammer, the chief physician at F , a well known watering-place in the Bavarian Tyrol : ' Proceed at once to the village of G , where Henry Seymour lies in a precarious state from an accident in the hills. Spare no time nor trouble, and if need be summon further medical aid. All expenses will be paid. ' Robert Westenkreutz, ' British Consul-General at Munich. The doctor read the telegram through twice, and then folded it up with a thoughtful air. A drive to the village in question, even if undertaken with his best horses, would take a couple of hours at least, and that along a bad road over a rough and broken bit of country. But the summons was imperative. He knew the British Consul at Munich, and was aware that, however un pleasant the journey might be, it would not prove unprofitable to him from a business point of view.

So he consulted his watch, which showed the hour of noon, and having rung his bell and ordered his trap to be got ready, he left instructions for his assistant to take his place during his absence, and drove off to the little village of G . It was half-past two in the afternoon when he at last reached his destination. The appearance in this remote mountain spot of a trap drawn by a pair of elegant horses was an event unparalleled even in the memory of the oldest inhabitant of the place, and the doctor found no difficulty in obtaining the information necessary to guide him to the house where the young Englishman lay. He was met at the entrance by the woman of the house, who, on hearing he was the great Dr. Schwerthammer, whose transcendent fame it was, so she believed, which attracted the fashion of all Europe and the world beyond to the little Bavarian watering-place, led him with many curtseys to the sick room on the floor above.

The room was small, but clean and rather neatly furnished. The bed on which the sick man lay stood in the furthest corner, and at its head sat a child, who rose as the doctor approached, and retired silently to the end of the room. The physician asked no questions, but proceeded to examine the patient without further ado. The bandages round the head were easily removed, and the injuries they concealed soon examined. But the right arm, which had evidently been broken, c was in splints, and the bandages in this case required more careful handling. As the doctor turned round, looking for someone to assist him, the child, who had left the bedside when he entered, glided noiselessly across the room, and without a word gently lifted up the injured limb and held it in position, whilst the doctor unfastened the bandages and examined it.

The patient groaned once or twice aloud while the examination was proceeding, but otherwise gave no signs of consciousness. At length the physician had concluded his investigation. The splints were once more set in position and the bandages replaced. The doctor now turned to the woman, who, after ushering him into the room, had kept her position at the door, prepared, as it seemed, to rush out at the slightest sign of anything in the nature of an operation. He was just beginning to question her as to the details of the accident and the length of time that had elapsed since its occurrence, when the door was opened, and a man hurriedly entered the room. It was the village barber, to whose professional knowledge the injured man owed what medical treatment he had received since the day of the accident, and who, with a due sense of his responsibility, had hastened to the house on being informed of the physician's arrival.

From him the doctor learned the particulars of the case ; how the little deaf and dumb girl, Kathi, had brought the news to the village that a man was lying dead or injured from a fall from the rocks ; how, with extreme difficulty, owing to the prevailing mist in the hills, and by the help of the most experienced climbers in the village, they had got the body safely down from the place where it was found, a narrow ledge of grass covered ground about halfway up the high rock ; how he (the barber), who had accompanied the rescue party in his medical capacity, had examined the body on the spot, and finding life not to be extinct, had ordered it to be conveyed with all care to the house where it now lay ; how he had there again renewed his examination and taken his measures ; how he had found, from papers in the young man's pocket, the address of his friends in England, and had communicated with them ; and many other details which it would be too tedious to relate. ' Then it was you who set the broken limb ? ' said the doctor. ' The work does you credit.

You must have had some experience in surgery.' The man explained with some little pride that he had gone through the war of 1870-71 as body-servant to the doctor of his regiment, and had helped to set many a limb when on ambulance work. His medical knowledge was very limited, he added, but he had done his best ; though — and here he shook his head — he feared there was little hope that it would avail. ' There is no telling,' said the doctor. ' The marvel is that the poor young fellow is still alive. The arm is c all right. But he is suffering from severe concussion of the brain. Has he never regained consciousness since he was brought here ? ' ' Yes,' replied the man, ' two days ago, when the fever suddenly abated. But he merely asked for a drink of water, and soon relapsed into his former con dition.

It was while the child was out collecting snow.' The doctor looked puzzled, and the man continued, with a compassionate glance at the little deaf mute, who was following everything that passed with a wistful expression in her pretty brown eyes that was touching to behold, ' Poor lass, it was she who thought of it, and but for her ' and he proceeded to tell how the child, who refused to leave the sick man's side for a moment, seeing the rough arrangements that were made on the first day to keep his fevered head cool by constantly renewing the wet bandages, had quietly disappeared, and returned after three hours with a sack full of compressed snow, which she had collected from the crevices and crannies high up in the hills. ' It was the best substitute for ice we could get,' the man said. ' And ever since she has fetched a fresh supply every morning.

Poor little soul,' he added ; ' but she'll break down herself if she goes on in this way. The strongest of us cannot do without sleep, let alone a child.' ' What ! ' exclaimed the doctor, much interested in what he heard. ' Does the child nurse him ? ' ' None but she,' replied the barber, ' and little the rest she has had, if any, since we laid him on that bed ten days ago. Without her, I am bold to say, he would not have lasted four-and-twenty hours. Ah, well ! he stood her friend, when she had none to stand by her, and she is quits with him now.' The doctor beckoned the child to him. She looked haggard and worn, and her little bare feet, as she stepped across the room in obedience to his summons, seemed scarcely capable of performing their office. Her large eyes had the dark circles round them that are the surest indication of unusual fatigue, but their lustre was undimmed, indeed, they shone with a bright ness which appeared almost unnatural. ' The child must take some sleep,' the doctor said. ' She is utterly worn out.