‘I’ll go and tell her,’ said Picotee.

‘I suppose they will be off somewhere, and she is busy getting ready?’

’O no.  They are not going to travel till next year.  Ethelberta does not want to go anywhere; and Lord Mountclere cannot endure this changeable weather in any place but his own house.’

‘Poor fellow!’

‘Then you will wait for her by the firs?  I’ll tell her at once.’

Picotee left him, and Sol went across the glade.

46.  Enckworth (continued)—­the Anglebury highway

He had not paced behind the firs more than ten minutes when Ethelberta appeared from the opposite side.  At great inconvenience to herself, she had complied with his request.

Ethelberta was trembling.  She took her brother’s hand, and said, ’Is father, then, gone?’

‘Yes,’ said Sol.  ’I should have been gone likewise, but I thought you wanted to see me.’

’Of course I did, and him too.  Why did you come so mysteriously, and, I must say, unbecomingly?  I am afraid I did wrong in not informing you of my intention.’

’To yourself you may have.  Father would have liked a word with you before—­you did it.’

’You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage when we passed you.  I want to see him on an important matter—­his leaving Mrs. Doncastle’s service at once.  I am going to write and beg her to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.’

‘He’s very much upset about you.’

‘My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,’ she said sadly.  ’But I had reasons.  Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not want to see me?’

‘We did want to see you up to a certain time.’

‘You did not come to prevent my marriage?’

‘We wished to see you before the marriage—­I can’t say more.’

‘I thought you might not approve of what I had done,’ said Ethelberta mournfully.  ‘But a time may come when you will approve.’

‘Never.’

‘Don’t be harsh, Sol.  A coronet covers a multitude of sins.’

‘A coronet:  good Lord—­and you my sister!  Look at my hand.’  Sol extended his hand.  ’Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it were out of joint, and that hard place inside there.  Did you ever see anything so ugly as that hand—­a misshaped monster, isn’t he?  That comes from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year after year.  If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in fustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, “That man’s a carpenter.”  Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be brother to a viscountess without something being wrong?  Of course there’s something wrong in it, or he wouldn’t have married you—­something which won’t be righted without terrible suffering.’

‘No, no,’ said she.  ’You are mistaken.  There is no such wonderful quality in a title in these days.  What I really am is second wife to a quiet old country nobleman, who has given up society.  What more commonplace?  My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was before.’