“Then I’ll go and hang myself.”
Poor Geoffry! For weeks—for months—he had been anticipating such a moment as this; had revolved every kind of set speech; every form of the most moving entreaty; every promise to devote his life to her happiness and welfare; all in the most impassioned language that the earnestness of his love could suggest: and had shivered with apprehension lest his nervousness and misgiving should intervene to mar the effect and leave him stuttering and looking an ass; yet now that the critical moment had come, all his carefully-planned oratory had resolved itself into the brusque, passionate statement—“Then I’ll go and hang myself.” Yet never was declaration more exhaustive.
She understood his meaning; she did not wish him to say more; and her tone was very gentle, very pitiful, as she replied:
“Be a man.”
The utterly wretched expression upon his face, showed that he had understood her. Never was proposal more terse; never refusal more prompt and decisive. It was impossible for each to misunderstand the other.
“Have I no chance, Yseulte?” he said, the eager trepidation of his former tone having given way to one of dull hopelessness, which moved her infinitely.
“No,” she answered, gently. “It would be cruel to leave you in any doubt. There are many reasons against it—insuperable reasons.”
“Oh, what are they? Tell me what they are,” he cried, relapsing into his former tone. “They can be removed—there is nothing I will not do, or give up, for you. What are they? You don’t like my people, I know; but you have always been kind and friendly with me. Surely my relations need not stand in the way?”
“You must not ask me for reasons, Geoffry. Let us talk over this rationally. If I cared for you as you wish, nothing should stand in the way. But as I do not, even you would not thank me for coming between yourself and those who do. Only think what a firebrand I should be.”
“No, you would not. I tell you there is nothing I would not do for you—or would not give up for you. Only just try me.”