AFTER THE STORM
The death of Colonel Bremenhof caused a profound sensation; and the
most varied and contradictory reports were circulated about it.
The authorities branded it assassination, and threatened the most
rigorous punishment of those whom they deemed the murderers.
The members of the Fraternity were charged with responsibility for it;
and were declared to have laid a deep and far-reaching plot to destroy
him as one of the chief executive leaders of the government.
The strikers were jubilant over the event. He had fallen in fair fight,
they alleged, when leading the police and soldiers to attack peaceful
citizens; and his death was hailed as triumph and encouragement to
their cause.
In fact almost every conceivable reason was given--except the truth.
There were a few who looked a little deeper for the cause; and among
these was my old friend General von Eckerstein.
Three days after the outbreak of the riots I called to bid him
good-bye, and I found him deeply impressed and full of interested
speculation about the matter.
“What beats me, Bob, is what business he had to get into the thick
of a street fight,” he said. “He must have been mad. From what I have
heard, his whole conduct that day was more than eccentric.”
“Wasn’t it his duty, then?” I asked casually.
“Duty? What! To go out and fight the mob? What do you suppose the
ordinary police and soldiers are for?”
“He must have had some private motive then.”
He turned on me like a flash. “What do you mean? Do you know anything?”
“No, nothing officially.”
“Good Heavens! where have you been the last few days; since you were
here?”
“I told you just now that I returned to the city this midday, to see
the last of my poor friend Ladislas. He was buried about the same time
as Bremenhof. Ladislas’ funeral was not nearly so imposing a ceremony,
but there was vastly more genuine grief.”
“Oh, nobody liked Bremenhof as a man; but that so high an official
should have fallen in such a way! But you--where were you on Monday?”
“I stayed at the _Vladimir_ on Sunday night and left Warsaw on Monday
evening.”
“And all that day?” he asked with a very sharp look.
“Oh, I was moving about in different parts of the city.”
“Did you see that fight in the street of St. Gregory?”
“Yes, amongst other things.”
“Do you mean you know what took Bremenhof there?”
I nodded. “He was after me as a matter of fact. It’s a pretty bad
tangle, but if you haven’t got your official ears open, I’ll tell you.”
I told him enough to make the matter clear.
“And after that you dare to shew your face in Warsaw? Are you mad, boy?”
“There is no daring about it because there’s no risk. There was only
one man who knew me in the affair--the police spy, Burski; and he has
his own, right enough. He was playing spy at a meeting of the strikers
on Tuesday night; and one of the men who was in the house at the place
of St. John recognized him. He was a fellow of resource and iron nerve,
and tried to brazen it out that he was a Fraternity man. But he failed.”
“You mean?”
“They lynched him then and there.”
“The infernal villains!”
“If it comes to that Bremenhof, who was buried to-day with full
military honours, wasn’t much to boast of.”
“If you’re going to turn revolutionary you’d better get out of the city
and be off home. Luck like yours won’t last, boy.”
“I’m going. I’ve done nothing except checkmate a scoundrel. Given the
same circumstances, I’d try it again.”
He looked at me with a half whimsical smile. “Where is she, Bob?”
“Not so far from Warsaw as I hope she soon will be, General.”
“You got her out of the city then?”
“Oh, yes, without much difficulty. When the crowd got the upper hand
in the street fight it was easy for us to get away. I drove with her
to the place where Madame Drakona had been sent. Then I hurried to the
_Vladimir_ and put on the police uniform which Burski had brought me.
That, coupled with the special authority I got out of Bremenhof and
helped by a blunt discourteous official manner, made things easy. I
could have taken a train load of women out of Warsaw. Two were a mere
detail.”
“Do you understand the fearful risk you’ve run?”
“One doesn’t always stop to consider that. Things have to be done
and one does them first and thinks afterwards. Besides, I had a good
object.”
“What do you mean?” He asked this very curtly.
I smiled. “It was in the cause of freedom.”
“In the cause of fiddlesticks. What’s Poland’s freedom to you, that you
should risk your life for it?”
“Nothing.”
He started and his eyes brightened meaningly. “Oh, I see. The freedom
of the girl, eh?”
“Isn’t it a good enough cause for me?”
“I suppose you think so,” he said drily. “Are you in a fit state now
to take an old diplomat’s advice?”
“Yes; if I agree with it, of course.”
“Oh, of course. Well, it’s this. Get out of Warsaw and out of Russia,
and stay out.”
“Haven’t I come to bid you good-bye? Give me credit for something. I’m
going by the next train.”
“Where?”
I laughed. “I like the rural districts of Poland. I’m going first to
Solden. Do you know the neighbourhood?”
“Solden? What in the name of----oh, is she there?”
I nodded. “At Kervatje, a few miles’ drive from there.”
“But the police of Solden know you both. They brought you here.”
“There is nothing against either of us now. Bremenhof’s death has
made all the difference. The evidence against Madame Drakona has
been destroyed, and the charge against her daughter was never made
officially. There’s no one now to make it.”
“Arrests are being made wholesale, boy, with or without charges, in
consequence of his death. Where are the brother and sister?”
“I don’t know, and I daren’t make any inquiries.”
“Oh, there _is_ something you daren’t do, then? I don’t like the
thing, Bob, and that’s the truth. Look here, I’m going through to
Berlin to-morrow; stay here till then and travel with me. I shall know
you’re out of mischief then.”
“I should like it but--well, the fact is, you see, I shan’t be
travelling alone.”
He laughed drily. “As bad as that, eh?”
“Yes, if you call it bad. I don’t.”
“Are your papers in order? Your passports?”
I shook my head. “My own is, but not the rest.”
“How do you want it worded?” he asked with another grin.
“Oh, the usual way, whatever that is,” I said a little sheepishly.
“Robert Anstruther and----”
“Laugh away. Can you help me?”
“Give it me. Even I don’t know how a man carries his mother-in-law on
his own passport.”
“It is a bit awkward; but I don’t want a hitch now.”
“Look here, boy. I’ll stretch a point for you. I’ll go by way of Cracow
and will pick you up at Solden to-morrow. I’m travelling special,
and you shall all go through in my saloon;” and scarcely waiting to
listen to my thanks he hurried me off to the station, sending his
secretary with me to make sure that no difficulties were raised about
my departure.
At Solden I found Volna in a sleigh waiting for me. Her face lighted
and she welcomed me with a glad smile.
“You wonder to see me; but I was so anxious I could not stay at
Kervatje.”
“I have very little news.”
“Do you think it was only the news?”
“What else?”
“Bob!”
“You’re getting quite pat with that name, now.”
“Peggy had to learn it, you see.”
“And Volna?”
“Volna felt like rushing off to Warsaw when that train was so late,”
she replied earnestly.
“I like that answer; but there was no cause for anxiety, I’m glad to
say. Our troubles are over. To-morrow afternoon we shall be in Cracow.”
“I had a brother once who used to say that,” she said, with a laugh and
a glance.
“Are you sorry you’ve lost him?”
She answered by slipping her hand into my arm and nestling a little
closer to me. We sat for a time in the sympathetic silence of mutual
happiness and perfect understanding, listening to the rhythmic music of
the sleigh bells as the three horses glided rapidly over the snow.
Then I told her of my old friend’s promise to see us safely to Cracow
in his saloon.
“Will there be any one else there?”
“I don’t know. Some of his staff, perhaps.”
“It will be a little trying,” she said, with a show of dismay.
“Why?”
“As if you didn’t know. Think of the ordeal for me.”
“You’ve faced much worse things bravely enough. Besides, you won’t be
alone: You’ll have your----”
“Bob!” she interposed quickly, with a lovely blush.
“Your mother with you. Mayn’t I say that?”
“You were not going to say that.”
“What was I going to say?”
“Volna has all Peggy’s instincts, remember.”
“Well, I challenge you to say what you think I meant.”
“I’m not in a fighting mood to accept challenges.”
“I dare you to say it, then.”
“Don’t be a coward, Bob.”
“I’ll say it then. You’ll have your----”
“Bob.”
“It’s quite true. If you keep your promise of two days ago, and Father
Ambrose does his duty to-morrow. I shall be----”
“There’s the way to Cracow; do you recognize it?” she cried quickly, as
we reached the forked roads of which Father Ambrose had told us.
“That’s the way a brother and sister went; but this one to-morrow a man
and his----”
“How lucky we were not to have the snow that time, weren’t we?” she
broke in again.
“That wasn’t the real luck in my eyes. My luck was when I lost my
sister and found in her place my----”
She held up her hand, laughing and blushing vividly. “If you do,
I’ll----”
“Then I’ll wait until Father Ambrose has said it.”
“I shan’t mind then. Oh, Bob, won’t it be lovely!” and she laughed and
squeezed my arm, and pressed her head against my shoulder.
All of which no doubt sounds very much like foolishness. It goes to
shew that we were very young of course, very really in love, and very
happy after our strenuous time. As happy indeed as any two young people
could wish to be who were to be made man and wife within a few hours.
In those hours a deal of happiness is just so much foolishness.
In one thing Volna was wrong. It was no ordeal that awaited her on the
journey with the General to Cracow.
At her first glance he fell before her; and by the time we reached
Cracow he was almost as much in love with her as I was.
During the journey he shewed such tact, too. He devoted most of his
time to Volna’s mother; and having told her he had learnt that Katinka
and Paul had left Warsaw and gone to Vienna, he kept her talking most
of the time in one corner of the saloon, while Volna and I were alone
in another.
When we parted at Cracow he took Volna’s two hands and pressed them,
and smiled as he said tenderly, and very earnestly: “I can understand
Bob now that I’ve seen you. You were just made to be loved as I know he
loves you, my dear.”
And to me, drawing me aside: “I told you yesterday your luck wouldn’t
last, boy. I take that back. I pray God it may; and that you may always
be worthy of it. Good-bye, boy.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.