“Yes,” she said to her mother, when she had read it, “yes, Trevor has actually gone to Norway. There is no time even for me to write to him before he leaves England; but he gives the address of some places where they will call for letters. He says he will be away six or seven weeks.”
She gave a little sigh, a very little sigh.
“It seems very sudden,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“He had to decide at once,” answered Cicely. “This friend of his—Captain Halliday, I mean—was just starting. Of course, on the whole, I am very glad he has gone; it will make the summer pass pleasantly to him, and perhaps—”
“Perhaps what, dear?”
“Perhaps he will leave off being vexed with me. Don’t think I am dull on account of his having gone, mother; I am not so, truly. But lately, I cannot say how it is, whenever I think of our marriage, I grow dull.
“It is the thought of leaving home,” said Mrs. Methvyn tenderly.
“Partly,” replied Cicely, “and, mother, it is more than that. It is a sort of vague fear of the future—an apprehensiveness that I cannot put in words. I know I care for Trevor and trust him thoroughly, but sometimes I doubt if he knows me enough. I doubt whether I thoroughly satisfy him, even though I feel there is more in me than he has read. Sometimes I think he wishes I were prettier, and lighter. Do you know what I mean, mother? Do all girls have these feelings, mother?”
“You are not one of the ‘all,’ Cicely.”
“Did you?” said Cicely, dropping her voice a little. “I don’t, of course, mean when you married my father, but before?”