An Uncrowned King Chapter 8 Part 2

“I would never do it,” said Nadia, her lips white.

“I never thought you would; but I am afraid it would move Europe to laughter to see the King of Thracia pursuing from place to place a young lady——”

“Who was the daughter of a Scythian spy!” cried Nadia, with a fierce laugh. “You are right, Lord Cyril; it would be worse than wrong, it would be ridiculous. And ridicule must never touch any one connected with Lord Cyril Mortimer; he could not endure it, all his relations must be above suspicion in that respect. Well, I will not only leave Bellaviste, but I will write to his Majesty a letter explaining my reason for doing so. Does that satisfy you?”

“But—excuse me,” said Cyril; “has my brother ever really asked you to marry him?”

“If he had, he would have received his answer already,” returned Nadia. “Most certainly he has not.”

“You really must pardon me—but do you intend to write a letter declining a proposal that has never been made to you?”

“Why not? You know, and he knows, and I know, that he loves me. Why make all this trouble? You do not wish him to write to me first? I might keep his letter, sell it to a newspaper, make it the groundwork of a scandal that would spread through Europe, who knows? Come, I will write now: you shall tell me what to say if you like.”

“Excuse me, but this will never do,” said Cyril, refusing to give way when she tried to pass him and reach the writing-table. “Do you think Caerleon would under any circumstances consent to regard a message in a letter—which was not even written in answer to one from him—as your final decision? He would see at once that there had been outside influence at work, and suspect that you had written under pressure. He must hear everything from your own lips.”

“Oh, why must you make it so hard for me? Let me write,” entreated Nadia, standing before him with clasped hands.

“It is impossible,” said Cyril, firmly. “You must see him.”

“Is it absolutely necessary? Then I suppose I must,” said Nadia, drawing a deep breath. “But remember, Lord Cyril, I will tell no lies. He shall know my reason for refusing him.”

“I thought,” said Cyril, “that young ladies considered themselves justified in telling a little fib on such occasions, such as saying that they found they did not care for their suitors in quite the right way, or something of the kind?”

“The young ladies with whom you are acquainted may tell fibs,” returned Nadia, with a cool incisiveness that reminded him of her mother, “but I do not. Does it not seem to you hard enough to have to refuse the man who loves me, that you wish me to do it by means of a lie?”

“How can you expect him to accept his dismissal if you go into details in the way you propose?” asked Cyril. “Can’t you simply refuse him without giving a reason? It is a lady’s privilege, you know.”

“That I will not do!” cried Nadia, fiercely. “He shall not be forced to think that the woman to whom he has given his love is insensible—a stone. He shall know that her suffering is at least as great as his.”

“Well, you have your own ideas as to the best way of imparting consolation, certainly,” said Cyril. “I suppose I can’t quarrel with you, so long as you do really send him off.”

“Of course I shall send him away,” said Nadia. “I have known for a week that it must be done. Bring him here, and I will tell him that I cannot marry him. Perhaps you would wish to remain in the room, so as to assure yourself that I keep faith with you?”

“Caerleon must not come here,” said Cyril, thoughtfully, disregarding the taunt. “It is most important for us to avoid notice. I must contrive a meeting for you somewhere, which may seem accidental, even if it is observed.”

“Do you wish to destroy my good name as well as your brother’s happiness, Lord Cyril?” she asked, cuttingly. Cyril made a movement of impatience.

“You are determined to put me in the wrong,” he said, facing her indignant eyes without flinching. “If you will only remember that my brother’s name would be at least as much affected as yours in such a case, you will judge me more fairly. I can assure you that the only meeting of which I was thinking was one in the intervals of a dance, or some entertainment of the kind. Surely you must see the need for secrecy? It is not merely that my brother must not marry you. He must marry some one else.”

Cyril had his revenge for all the unpleasantness of the morning, for Nadia, after one wild start, stood as if she had been turned to stone.

“Another girl?” she gasped at last. “Who is she? Do I know her? No; don’t tell me her name. I shall hear it quite soon enough, and I don’t want to hate her. Some princess? and she is to marry him?—and he is mine!”