THE ENGRAVER’S DAUGHTER.

———

BY HARRY SUNDERLAND.

———

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Little Dora Stilling was but six years old when her best friend went to Heaven. She was a beautiful child, and her father, Mark Stilling, an old engraver, loved her with a species of blind idolatry. Stilling was by birth a German, and his reading had not gone much beyond the childish romances peculiar to his country, which had left upon his mind an indelible impression. At twelve years old he was apprenticed to an engraver, and since that time had seen little of the world beyond the room in which his noiseless occupation happened to be. His mind, therefore, remained half asleep, and the dreams that passed through it had little in common with the real life around him. He was an old man when he married, and his wife, who passed with many, who did not know better, as his daughter, died a few years after their only child, Dora, was born.

Upon the death of his wife, the heart of Mark Stilling turned toward the sweet child she had left him, with an affection made jealous and intenser by his loss. For her he desired all good in the world’s power to bestow; but as to what was the greatest good he had but vague notions. As he grew older, and his mind drooped toward second childhood, from the ideas and feelings of his earlier years the dust of time was blown away, and all was as distinct and fresh as if the spring-time of life were but yesterday. Images of beautiful maidens, wooed by princes in disguise, floated before his imagination; and then his thoughts would turn to Dora, who grew more and more lovely in his eyes every day. Nothing short of some such consummation for his child, he felt, would ever satisfy him.

It was little wonder that the old engraver loved Dora with an absorbing affection; for, opening like a rose, she displayed to his eyes some new feature of loveliness every day, as well in mind as in body. While he sat at his work, tracing out upon the hard, polished steel forms of beauty, Dora was ever present in his mind, more beautiful than any creation of the painter’s pencil he had yet been commissioned to copy.

Swiftly the years glided on, and Dora became less and less a child. As soon as she was able to go to school, she was placed under the care of the best teachers in the city, and from that time every dollar earned by Stilling, beyond what the simple wants of nature demanded, was spent upon his daughter, that she might be thought accomplished in every thing, and thus made a fit companion for the best in the land. He wished her to be, in one word, a lady—and, in the engraver’s mind, a lady was something more than the term conveys in its usual acceptation.

But as Dora grew up lovely and accomplished as her parent’s heart could desire, she exhibited a simplicity of taste, and a love for useful employments, that her father did not in the least approve. Fond old man! Half insane, under the delusion himself had conjured up from among his early fancies, he felt, whenever Dora’s hands were engaged in work, that she was degrading herself, and ever sought to keep her above the necessity of entering into any domestic occupation. Dora, as her mind grew clearer, saw the weakness and folly of all this. She saw that her father was old, and growing feebler and less able to work every day, and that his income was steadily decreasing; and she felt that, before a very long time, upon her would fall the burden of his as well as her own support. One day she came to him and said⁠—

“Dear father, you are getting old, and your strength is failing. Let me go and learn a trade, and then I can work for you.”

The old man caught for breath two or three times, like one suddenly deprived of air.

“A trade, did you say, child!” He spoke in a low whisper.

“Yes, father, a trade. Let me learn some trade, so that I can help you. I am young, and you are old. You have worked for me since I was child; now let me work for you.”

“No, no, Dora! You shall not learn a trade,” replied Stilling firmly. Then he added, in a chiding voice, “How could you think of such a thing! You must look higher, my child. You are as good as any lady in the land, and may take the place of the best.” Here his voice grew animated. “Don’t you remember the story of the light-haired maiden whom the king’s son saw, and loved better than all the proud court ladies, because she was beautiful and good; and how he came in a splendid chariot, and carried her away and made her his bride? True, there are no kings here”—the old man faintly sighed—“but there are many rich and great people. No—no—Dora, you shall not learn a trade.”

Dora understood well what her father meant by these allusions, for he had often talked so before, and sometimes more plainly; and she knew that it would be of no use to argue against him. So she said no more about learning a trade. But she engaged more diligently in every useful thing that came to her hand, and sought, by every means in her power, to add to her father’s comfort.

Almost alone as Mark Stilling was, and possessing none of those cultivated tastes and accomplishments necessary for one who would introduce a young girl like his daughter into society, the old man saw weeks and months go by, after Dora had become a woman, and yet his lovely flower remained hidden by the wayside. He looked upon her as she came in and went out, and wondered that all the world was not captivated by her beauty. And as he grew older, and his intellect became feebler and feebler, this one idea took a still stronger hold upon his mind.

Dora, at the age of nineteen, began to feel great concern for her father. Both body and mind it was plain to her were failing rapidly; and orders for work were much less frequent than they had been. But even if work had been as abundant as before, he had less ability to perform it; and this was daily decreasing. Again she asked permission to learn a trade; but it was met with as firm an opposition as before, and on the same ground.

“I must have some means of supporting myself and father,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “for it will not be long that he can keep at work. What shall I do? He will not let me learn a trade.” She reflected for a long time, and then, as if all had become clear to her, she clapped her hands together and murmured—“Yes—yes. That shall be it. I will devote myself to my music until I become proficient enough to teach.”

Already much money had been expended on Dora’s musical education, and she played and sang well. But she was not skilled enough to be able to give instructions. So from that time she spent many hours each day at her piano; and also practiced on the guitar. As the old man listened to her warblings, how little dreamed he that all this was but the learning of a trade, against which his mind had so revolted.

As we have said, the old man became less and less competent to perform his work well and expeditiously, and it gradually left him and went into other hands. His income thus reduced, it became necessary to abridge the expenses of his household, or fall in debt, something for which Stilling had a natural horror. The first step downward, and one that it hurt the engraver much to take, was the giving up of the neat little house in which he had lived, and taking apartments in a second story, at half the rent formerly paid. Dora urged strongly, when this change was made, to have their domestic sent away.

“I can do all the work, father. Let Ellen go, and then we will save nearly half our living.”

But the old man would not listen a moment to this, and silenced his daughter by an emphatic “No.”

Yet for all this care in keeping Dora above the sphere of usefulness, her charms had not won for her a distinguished lover. Still Dora had a lover, and this was less wonderful than it would have been had her sweet face not pictured itself on some heart. But her lover was only a humble clerk in a store where she had often been to make purchases. He was as simple and earnest in all his tastes and feelings as Dora herself. Their meetings were not frequent, for young Edwards had been told of the old engraver’s weakness, and did not, therefore, venture to call upon his sweetheart at her home.

At length so little work came that Stilling did not receive more than sufficient money to buy food, and actual privation began to creep in upon himself and daughter. Stern necessity required the dismissal of their domestic, and then the old man busied himself in household matters, in order to keep Dora as far as possible above such menial employments. As age crept on, and his intellects grew still weaker, he clasped his fond delusion more closely to his heart, and observed all of Dora’s movements with a more jealous eye.

For as long a time as a year had the faith of Dora and her lover been pledged. Their meetings were generally in the street, on a certain appointed afternoon of each week. Then they walked together and talked about the future, when there should be no barrier to their happiness. But the young man, as time wore on, grew impatient; and his pride occasionally awakened, telling him that he was as good as the old engraver, and worthy, in every respect, to claim the hand of his daughter. Sometimes this feeling showed itself to Dora, when the maiden would be so hurt that Edwards always repented of his hasty words, and resolved to be more guarded in future.

“Let me call and see you at your father’s,” said Edwards, one day as they were walking together; “perhaps I may not be so unwelcome a visiter as you think.”

“Oh, no, no! you must not think of it,” replied Dora quickly.

“But where is this to end?” inquired the young man. “If he will not accept me as your lover, and you cannot become mine except with his consent, the case seems hopeless.”

Dora did not reply at the moment, and they walked along for some time in silence.

“There is a way. I have thought of it a great deal,” at length said the young girl. She spoke with some hesitation in her manner.

“What is it?” inquired her lover.

Dora leaned toward him, and said something in a low voice.

“That’s not to be thought of,” was the quick reply of the young man.

Dora was silent, while her bosom, as it rose and fell quickly, showed that her feelings were much disturbed.

The suggestion, whatever it was, appeared to hurt or offend the young man, and when they separated, it was with a coldness on his part that made tears dim the eyes of Dora the moment she turned from him.

On their next meeting both felt constrained; and their conversation was not so free and tender as before. It took some weeks for the effect of Dora’s proposition, whatever it was, to wear off. But after that time the sunshine came back again, and was brighter and warmer than before.

One day, it was perhaps four or five months after the little misunderstanding just mentioned, the old engraver was visited by a stranger, whose whole appearance marked him as either a foreigner or one who had lived abroad. He wanted him, he said, to copy on steel, in his most finished style, the miniature of a lady. As he mentioned his errand to the engraver, he drew from his pocket the miniature of a young and exquisitely beautiful woman, set in a costly gold locket. Mark Stilling took the picture, but the moment he looked at it his countenance changed.

“Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger.

“I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air.

“Have you?” was the quick inquiry.

“Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man.

“Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest some accident should deprive me of its possession.”

While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately enamored.

“Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the old man’s revery.

“Yes—yes,” answered Stilling.

“How long do you want?”

“Two months.”

“So long?”

“Yes, to do it well.”

“Take, then, your own time, and charge your own price. Here are fifty dollars,” and the stranger handed the engraver some money. “I will call every day while the work is progressing, that I may look at the sweet picture upon which you are engaged.”

“How large shall it be?” inquired the engraver.

“Just the size of the miniature,” replied the stranger. Then rising, he said, as he bowed to Stilling, “I will see you again to-morrow about this hour.”

On the next day, when the stranger called, Dora was sitting by her father. An exclamation of delight was checked upon his lips, as his eyes fell upon the beautiful girl; but his noble face expressed surprise and undisguised admiration.

“The lovely original!” dropped at length from his tongue.

“My daughter,” said the engraver.

Dora rose up and made a low courtesy.

“Your daughter! How strange! You did not tell me this yesterday.”

“No. But she is my child—my only child—and I love her better than I love my life.”

Light kindled in the old man’s face, and a quiver of excitement was in every nerve. It was only by an effort that he refrained from giving way to the most extravagant praises of Dora, who sat, with her eyes meekly cast upon the floor.

On the next day, the stranger called again, and found Dora, as at the previous visit, with her father. This time he spoke to the maiden in a familiar, yet respectful way. Every look he directed toward her was one of admiration; yet not a glance of this character escaped the watchful eyes of her father.

From the first Mark Stilling regarded the stranger with especial favor. After the meeting with Dora it was settled in the old man’s mind that fortune was at length to crown with joy his dearest wish in life. All suspicion was lulled to rest in his mind. The fact that the stranger withheld his name, but confirmed him in the belief that he was either a nobleman in disguise, or connected with some wealthy and distinguished family at home.

Week followed week, and the stranger came every day to mark the progress of the plate, the execution of which he did not countermand. He never staid over an hour at a time, and that was mostly spent with Dora, whose musical abilities he highly praised, and whom he always asked to play for him. The little parlor of the engraver was on a different floor from that on which he worked, and so, while playing for the stranger, Dora was always alone with him.

Stilling was in no way surprised when the stranger asked the hand of his daughter in marriage. Dora was born to be a lady, and now had come the fufillment of her destiny. The poor old man’s mind was so infirm that it could not go beyond this simple idea. No doubt came to trouble him; no suspicion disturbed his happy dream. More than the stranger told him he believed; for as to who he was, or to what station Dora would be elevated, he was silent. But Stilling asked nothing on this head. He believed all he wished to believe. The offer for his child’s hand he felt to be a noble offer, and he yielded his fullest consent.

And so Dora was married to the stranger. But not until five minutes before the ceremony was performed, did Stilling know that his name was Edwards. The marriage took place in Stilling’s little parlor. After the rite was over, and the minister had retired, the bridegroom took the old man’s hand, and said to him, as he pointed to the finished plate containing the head of Dora.

“That, father, is your last work. You can rest now after so many years of labor. Come, there is a carriage at the door; we will go to our new home.”

Stilling was half bewildered, yet happy. Without a pause or objection, he suffered his children to take him to another home. That home was really a modest one; but in the eyes of the fond old man it was little less than a palace.

On the morning after the marriage, the moustache of young Edwards disappeared, and he went forth daily from that time and engaged in his regular business. But the engraver, who now began to sink rapidly both in mind and body, dreamed not that Dora’s husband was only a clerk, whose yearly income fell below a thousand dollars.

In less than a year Mark Stilling slept with his fathers, deeply mourned by the child he had loved with so strong and blind a passion. He was ignorant to the last of the deceit that had been practiced upon him, and as firmly believed that the kind and affectionate young husband of Dora was of noble blood, and one of the great ones of the land, as that the sun arose and set daily. And he was far happier in this belief than he would have been with all as real as he imagined.