At the same time, though most ardently attached to Flora, he had no absurdly romantic imaginings in respect to his own claims to her hand; nor did he attempt to shut his eyes to the fact that the return of the younger Harper, coupled with the death of his deeply lamented uncle, almost completely robbed him of the small chance he had previously possessed.
His first step, after the night’s deliberation of which we have just spoken, was to write at length to Flora, to explain honestly and openly to her the situation in which circumstances had placed him. He detailed how his natural expectations had been abruptly shattered, and the stern necessity which henceforward would imperiously call upon him to supply, by the exercise of his own skill and industry, those resources with which his late uncle had so liberally and kindly intended to furnish him.
He made a clean breast, and disguised nothing; but his letter was not composed in a complaining or whining spirit; and while he dwelt upon his own ardent love for her, and alluded to the tender acknowledgments she had made to him, it was rather with a view to suggest to her that the change in his condition, since her admission of attachment, left her now free to act in the future disposal of her hand and person. This, he told her, he felt to be as a matter of justice and of right simply her due; but it was, also, only fair to himself to state that he did not abrogate one hope or aspiration in which she had hitherto held the first place.
He bade her be assured that he looked into the future firmly, confidently, and with unwavering faith. He asked no promise from her binding her to his future fortunes; he even said that he would think of her in no angry spirit if, after what had recently occurred to himself, she accepted the hand of one her equal in rank and wealth, however deep might be his sense of the loss he should sustain; and finally, that he should ever do his utmost to prove himself worthy of her favourable opinion, even as he should strive, by unabated self-exertion, to recover the position from which he had been so unexpectedly hurled.
The letter despatched, he pursued the course he proposed for himself to follow. Personal application to the first manufacturing goldsmiths in London proved to him that his devotion to his art, and the success which always attends a well-directed perseverance, met its proper reward. In quarters where he believed himself unknown, his skill in the manipulation and the finish of his designs was almost a byeword. He was gratified beyond measure to find that hours withheld from idleness, and dedicated to his advancement, had won for him a name, as a sculptor in the precious metal, earlier in life than could have been accomplished by any other means.
Employment was liberally given to him, and a high scale of remuneration awarded in payment. So far his affairs went well; but his hopes were but hopes coloured by a fervid and sanguine imagination. He was unconscious of the wide gulf which separated him—a young journeyman goldsmith—from the daughter of the representative of an ancient and wealthy house. Before his confident and imaginative eyes there did not present itself that long vista of years, through which, if unaided, he must pass to achieve the position which he himself felt it was fitting he should hold, before he could, in honesty and honour, ask Flora Wilton to become his wife.
He saw not foreshadowed in the task to which it was his intention to devote himself the incessant application and trying toil essential to success; he counted not upon exhaustion of energy, repeated and vexing though common disappointments and retarding circumstances, all to be surmounted before the goal he longed for could be reached. He saw no impediment which steadfast faith and unwavering perseverance might not overcome. He therefore entered upon his mission, not only to win wealth but to reap laurels, with a bold heart and a firm purpose, keeping ever in his eyes, as a tutelary spirit, the beautiful form of Flora Wilton, so that he might ever be conscious of the value of the prize for which he was contending, and never, never grow faint-hearted or weary while prosecuting his labour of love.
Flora Wilton received his letter. She perused it many times and with no little emotion. It came to her as a new opposition to her hopes, raised up in a most unexpected quarter, and, with womanly instinct, she perceived the important influence a knowledge of Hal’s sudden reducement to poverty would have upon her father’s aversion to a union between them; but she was woman enough, too, to feel that it strengthened her resistance to her father’s design.
She wept as she considered that this sudden change in his circumstances must afflict the high spirit of her lover, and she heartily wished that at the moment she had control of a fortune that she might place it at his disposal. There was no absolute engagement existing between them; so far it had been a mutual love-confession, springing out of an accidental circumstance, but Flora now construed it into one.
“Had he been wealthy and of high standing, what has passed between us might not be considered actually binding on the free action of either,” she ruminated “but now misfortune has overtaken him, I cannot in honour release him if I wished. I do not wish to do so—no, oh no, Hal—I love you so very, very dearly, I would sooner die now than we should be separated for ever, and both live on.”