XLIV.
IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS.
“Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”—Comus.
“Unworthy?”
“Yes.”
Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.”
Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up your mind to forget him, the better.”
“Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side.