



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive









Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/nosurrender00wern
   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
   3. The author's name E. Werner is a pseudonym for
      Elisabeth Buerstenbinder.







                             NO SURRENDER.




                             NO SURRENDER.



                           FROM THE GERMAN OF
                               E. WERNER.



                                   BY
                           CHRISTINA TYRRELL.



                            _A NEW EDITION_.




                                LONDON:
                        RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
            Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
                                 1881.

                        [_All Rights Reserved_.]






                             NO SURRENDER.




                               CHAPTER I.


The whole landscape lay in bright sunshine. Clear as a mirror gleamed
the broad smooth surface of the lake, faithfully reflecting the image
of the town which rose in picturesque beauty on its shores, whilst in
the distance, vividly distinct, appeared the jagged peaks and dazzling
summits of the snow-mountains.

A suburb rich in villas and gardens lined the shore. In its midst stood
a pretty, detached habitation of modest aspect. It was a one-storied
cottage, by no means spacious, and showing signs of no special luxury
within or without. An open vine-traceried veranda formed well-nigh its
sole ornament; yet there was an air of refinement about the little
place, and it had a right friendly pleasant look, thanks to its fresh
white walls and green jalousies; while the surrounding garden, not very
large, truly, but highly cultivated, and stretching away to the border
of the lake, had a peculiar charm of its own, and greatly added to the
general attractiveness of the little country-house.

In the veranda, which afforded ample protection from the sun's ardent
rays, and where, even at noonday, a certain degree of coolness might be
enjoyed, two gentlemen were pacing, talking as they walked.

The elder of the two was a man of, it might be, about fifty years; but
old age seemed to have come upon him prematurely, for his form was bent
and his hair as grey as it could well be. The deeply-furrowed face,
too, bore evidence of bygone struggles, perhaps of sorrows and
sufferings of many kinds endured in the past, and the sharp, bitter
lines about the mouth gave a harsh and almost hostile expression to a
countenance which must once have been bright with ardour and
intelligence. In the eye alone there still blazed a fire which neither
years nor the hard experiences of life had had power to quench, and
which was in singular contrast with the silvered head and drooping
carriage.

His companion was much younger; a man slender of build and of average
height, with features which, though not strictly regular, were yet in
the highest degree attractive, and grave, earnest blue eyes. His light
chestnut hair waved over a fine open forehead. There was that slight
paleness of complexion which tells not of sickliness, but of keen
intellectual activity and a constant mental strain; and the predominant
expression was one of quiet steadfastness, such as is but rarely
stamped on a face at seven or eight and twenty. There could hardly be a
sharper contrast than that afforded by these two men.

"So you are really going to leave us already George?" asked the elder,
in a regretful tone.

The young man smiled.

"Already? I think I have made claim enough on your hospitality, Doctor.
When I came, I had no intention of staying on for weeks; but you
received me with such hearty kindness, I might have been some near and
dear relation, instead of a stranger who could only boast a college
friendship with your son. I shall never forget----"

"Pray do not thank me for that which has been a pleasure to myself,"
the Doctor interrupted him. "I only fear that at home you may have to
pay a penalty for the hospitality you have here enjoyed. To have stayed
at my house will be accounted a crime in Assessor Winterfeld--a crime
which will hardly meet with forgiveness. I have never concealed from
you the fact that your visit here is a venture which may compromise
your whole position."

The ironical tone of this warning called up a transient flush to young
Winterfeld's brow, and accounted for the vivacity with which he
answered:

"I think I have shown you that I am capable of maintaining my own
independence under all and any circumstances. My position, I should
hope, lays me under no obligation to avoid friendly relations which are
of a purely private nature."

"You think not? I am convinced of the contrary. On your return we shall
see which of us is right. Remember this, George; you are under Baron
von Raven's regime."

"I do not imagine that my chief troubles himself greatly about the
holiday excursions of his officials," said George, quietly. "He is
severe, inexorable even, in all matters relating to the service, but he
never interferes in our private concerns. That justice I must do
him, though I do not rank among his friends, I am, as you know, a
thorough-going opponent of the tendencies he represents, and therefore
personally opposed to himself; albeit, as his subordinate, I find
myself for the time being compelled to silence and obedience."

"For the time being?" echoed the Doctor, sarcastically. "I tell you, he
means to teach you lasting silence and obedience, and if you do not
show yourself teachable he will crush and ruin you. That is his way, as
it is the way of all such despicable parvenus."

George shook his head gravely,

"You go too far. The Baron has many enemies, and I do not doubt that in
secret much hatred and bitterness are entertained towards him, but as
yet no one has ventured to speak his name with contempt."

"Well, I venture it then," said the Doctor, with sudden vehemence;
"and, truly, not without good grounds."

The young man looked at him in silence, then, after a pause of a
second, he laid his hand on his arm.

"Dr. Brunnow, forgive me if I ask you a question which may, perhaps,
seem indiscreet. What is this matter between you and my chief? Whenever
his name is mentioned, you betray an amount of bitterness which cannot
possibly have its origin in mere political opposition. You seem to know
him intimately."

Brunnow's lips twitched:

"We were friends once," he answered, in a low voice; "young men
together."

"Impossible!" exclaimed George. "You and----"

"His Excellency Baron Arno von Raven, Governor of the Province of
R----, and closest friend and confidant of our present rulers,"
completed the Doctor, laying a sharp, scornful emphasis on each word.
"That surprises you, does it not?"

"Certainly. I had no notion of any such acquaintance between you."

"How should you? it dates almost half a generation back. In those days
he was only plain Arno Raven, and as poor and unknown as myself. We
learned to know each other in stormy, troubled times, meeting in the
ranks of the party to which we both belonged. Raven with his splendid
talents and restless energy soon worked to the front, and became leader
of us all. We followed him with blind confidence--I more especially,
for I loved him as I have loved no human being since, not even my wife
or child. All the enthusiasm of my youth was lavished on him. He was
my hero, to whom I looked up with ardent admiration--my ideal, my
pride--until the day when he betrayed and deserted us all, when he
sacrificed honour to ambition, and sold himself body and soul to our
enemies, giving us up at the same time to perdition. They call me
'misanthropic,' those wise folk who have never had their illusions
rudely dispelled--who have never met despair face to face. If indeed I
am a misanthrope, my nature was warped to bitterness on that day when,
losing my friend, I lost with him all faith in mankind."

He turned away in great agitation. Evidently the memory of that long
bygone event still shook the man's whole being to its depths.

"So there is some foundation for those reports which hint at a dark
spot in the Baron's past," remarked George, thoughtfully. "I have heard
rumours and vague allusions, but no one ever appeared to have any
positive knowledge on the subject. The matter must always have escaped
publicity, for Raven is only known as the energetic, unyielding
representative of the government."

"Renegades are ever the most untiring persecutors of the faith they
have abandoned," said Brunnow, gloomily; "and there was always a
dangerous element at work in Arno Raven, a fierce, consuming,
all-mastering ambition. This was his ruling passion, the true
mainspring of his actions; and this it was which finally brought about
his fall. His thoughts were constantly running on power and greatness
to be achieved in the future; he longed to govern, to command, cost
what it might, and he has obtained his heart's desire. His career is
absolutely unexampled. From poverty and obscurity he has risen step by
step from one dignity, from one high distinction to another. On
becoming the son-in-law of the minister whose acknowledged favourite he
had ever been, he was exalted to the rank of Baron, and at this moment
he is the well-nigh omnipotent governor of one of the principal
provinces of the land. He stands on the lofty pinnacle whereof he used
to dream; but I, whom he drove into prison and into banishment, who can
look back only on a weary course of years full of the most bitter
disappointments, and who, standing now on the threshold of old age,
have still to wrestle with the material cares of life--I would not
exchange my lowly lot for his greatness. He has paid for it a heavy
price--the price of his honour."

The speaker was terribly agitated. He broke off, and, turning, strode a
few times up and down the veranda, striving to conquer his emotion.
After a while he came back to George, who was standing silent and full
of thought.

"I have not touched on this subject for years," he began again; "but I
owed it to you to speak frankly. You are no blind, ductile instrument,
such as Raven requires, such as alone he suffers about him; and I fear
an hour may come when you will find yourself compelled to refuse him
obedience, if you wish to remain true to your principles, and to quit
yourself as an honourable man. What your after-fate may be beyond that
turning-point is indeed another question. Stand fast, George! Through
all the dislike and antagonism you nurture in your heart towards him,
there runs a subtle, secret vein of admiration for this man, and I can
understand it but too well. He has ever exercised a really magic
influence over all who have come into contact with him. You yourself
cannot altogether escape it, and for this reason I have thought it
necessary to enlighten you on the subject of Baron von Raven. You know
now what manner of man he is."

"I thought so, I declare! There they are again in the thick of their
politics, or immersed in some other interminable debate," said a voice
behind them. "I have been hunting for you all over the house, George.
Good-morning, father."

The speaker, who now stepped into the veranda, was, apparently,
George's junior by some years, but taller and of stronger build than
his friend--a fresh-looking, vigorous young man, with a frank open
face, clear eyes, and a plentiful crop of curly light hair. He cast one
scrutinizing glance at his father's face, still crimsoned by agitation,
and then went on:

"You should not excite yourself so much with your discussions, father.
You know how injurious it is to you; moreover, you have been hard at
work already this morning, I see."

So saying, he walked up to a table covered with books and papers, which
stood at a little distance, and began turning over some written pages.

"Let that alone, Max," said his father, impatiently. "You will
disarrange the manuscript, and you take no interest in these abstruse
scientific studies."

"Because I have no time for them," answered Max, quietly laying down
the papers. "A young assistant-surgeon at a hospital cannot sit all day
poring over his books. You know I have my hands pretty full."

"Time might be found," remarked Brunnow. "What you lack is
inclination."

"Well, inclination too, if you like. Practice is my study, and I dare
say it will get me on as far."

"As far as your ambition takes you, no doubt." There was an
unmistakable slight in the father's tone. "You will very probably found
an extensive practice, and look on your calling altogether in the light
of a lucrative profession. I do not question it in the least."

At this Max evidently had to fight down some rising irritation, but he
answered with tolerable calm:

"I shall certainly found a practice of my own at the earliest
opportunity. You might have done the same twenty years ago, but you
preferred to write medical works which bring you in very little money,
and, at the best, only obtain recognition from some few choice spirits
among your colleagues. Tastes differ."

"As our conception of life differs. You do not know what it means to
sacrifice yourself--to live for science."

"I sacrifice myself for nobody," said Max, defiantly. "I intend
conscientiously to fulfil my duties in life, and shall think that,
in so doing, I have done enough. You have a fancy for useless
self-immolation, father. I have none."

"Leave this incorrigible realist to his errors, Doctor," struck in
George, who from the irritated tone of both men began to fear a scene,
such as was not unf