Irony perusing History offers the beaten and indolent a sugary acid in the indication of the spites and the pranks, the whims and the tastes, at the springs of main events.  It is, taken by itself, destructive nourishment.  But those who labour in the field to shovel the clods of earth to History, would be wiser of their fellows for a minor dose of it.  Mr. Howell Edwards consulting with Mr. Owain Wythan on the necessity, that the earl should instantly keep his promise to appear among the men and stop the fermentation, as in our younger days a lordly owner still might do by small concessions and the physical influence—­the nerve-charm—­could suppose him to be holding aloof for his pleasure or his pride; perhaps because of illness or inability to conceive the actual situation at a distance.  He mentioned the presence of the countess, and Mr. Wythan mentioned it, neither of them thinking a rational man would so play the lunatic as to let men starve, and wreck precious mines, for the sake of avoiding her.

Sullen days went by.  On these days of the slate-cloud or the leaden-winged, Carinthia walked over the hills to her staring or down-eyed silent people, admitted without a welcome at some doors, rejected at some.  Her baskets from the castle were for the most part received as graciously.  She continued to direct them for delivery where they were needed, and understood why a charity that supplied the place of justice was not thanked.  She and her people here were one regarding the master, as she had said.  They could not hurt her sensitiveness, she felt too warmly with them.  And here it was not the squalid, flat, bricked east-corner of London at the close of her daily pilgrimage.  Up from the solitary street of the slate-roofs, she mounted a big hill and had the life of high breathing.  A perpetual escape out of the smoky, grimy city mazes was trumpeted to her in the winds up there:  a recollected contrast lightened the skyless broad spaces overhead almost to sunniness.  Having air of the hills and activity for her limbs, she made sunshine for herself.  Regrets were at no time her nestlings.

Look backward only to correct an error of conduct for the next attempt, says one of her father’s Maxims; as sharply bracing for women as for men.  She did not look back to moan.  Now that her hunger for the safety of her infant was momentarily quieted, she could see Kit Ines hanging about the lower ground, near the alehouse, and smile at Madge’s comparison of him to a drummed-out soldier, who would like to be taken for a holiday pensioner.

He saluted; under the suspicion of his patron’s lady his legs were hampered, he dared not approach her; though his innocence of a deed not proposed to him yet—­and all to stock that girl Madge’s shop, if done! knocked at his ribs with fury to vindicate himself before the lady and her maid.  A gentleman met them and conducted them across the hills.

And two Taffy gentlemen would hardly be sufficient for the purpose, supposing an ill-used Englishman inclined to block their way!—­What, and play footpad, Kit Ines?  No, it’s just a game in the head.  But a true man hates to feel himself suspected.  His refuge is the beer of the country.