'As if that had aught to do with it,' she said. 'I do not care for fine things now; once I lived for them; that is over.'
'You love books, if not fine things,' he went on, gathering courage as he felt Lucy, at any rate, could think with some concern, that he was lonely and unhappy. 'You care for books. I have saved money, and bought all I could lay my hand on at the shop in Paul's Churchyard. More than this, I have tried to learn myself, and picked up my old Latin, that I got at Tunbridge School. Yes, and there is a room at Hillside I call my lady's chamber. I put the books there, and quills and parchment; and I have got some picture tapestry for the walls, and stored a cupboard with bits of silver, and—'
'Oh! George, you are too good, too faithful,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I am not worthy; you do not really know me.' And, touched with the infinite pathos of George's voice, as he recounted all he had done in hope, for her pleasure, Lucy had much ado to keep back her tears. Then there was silence, more eloquent than words.
At last Lucy put her hand gently on George's arm.
'Hearken, George,' she said; 'if the day should ever dawn when I can come to you with a true heart, I will come. But this is not yet, and I should wrong a noble love like yours if I gave you in return a poor and mean affection, unworthy of your devotion. Do you understand me, George?'
'No,' he said, 'no, but I am fain to believe in you, and I will wait. Only,' he added, with sudden vehemence, 'give me one promise—do not let me hear by chance that you have become the wife of another man; give me fair warning, or I swear, if the blow should fall unawares, it would kill me or drive me mad.'
'You will never hear the news of which you speak, and in this rest content. I have neither desire nor intention of wedding with any man. Let that suffice.'
George drew himself up to his full height and said formally,—
'It shall suffice, so help me God.'
In all great assemblies like that which had gathered at Penshurst on this November day, there are often hidden romances, and chapters rehearsed in individual lives, of which the majority know nor care nothing. Who amongst that throng of courtly ladies and gay gentlemen knew aught of George Ratcliffe's love story; and, if they had known, who would have cared? To the greater number the whole thing would have seemed a fit subject for jest, perhaps of ridicule, for self-forgetting love, which has nothing to feed on, and no consolation except in nursing vain hopes for the fulfilment of the heart's desire, does not appeal to the sympathy of the multitude. Such chivalrous, steadfast love was not unknown in the days of Queen Elizabeth, nor is it unknown in the days of Queen Victoria. It left no record behind it then, nor will it leave a record now. It is amongst the hidden treasures, which are never, perhaps, to see the light of day; but it is a treasure, nevertheless; and who shall say that it may not shine in a purer atmosphere and gain hereafter the meed of praise it neither sought for nor found here?