Here a jollier fellow, who had introduced himself to Lenox as the local blacksmith, chimed in. “What’s worse was ’is father, ’e was. A reg’lar tyrant.” Then he braced himself for a long soliloquy. “The facts about Stirrington, sir, is that we here like hard work, we like our ale, we like our Sunday service, and we like promises kept. That’s the secret, Mr. Lenox. Don’t make promises you can’t keep; we’ll find you out, sir, we will.”

“We will,” agreed Roodle’s aggrieved former employee.

“Beer tax-you’ve made a good start, sir.”

“Aye, it’s true,” said several of the mute chorus who had been listening to the conversation as they ate.

“One other thing, Mr. Lenox-there’s nothing to be gained by attacking Roodle. Everyone here knows his faults, we know his virtues-for he does ’ave ’em, Sam, and pipe down-and before anyone votes for you the people of this town will need to know yours.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Lenox. “I hope I may count on your votes, at least?”

Not so fast, their looks said, though they all nodded agreeably enough

Finally, after supper, Lenox had time to return to his room and write back to Lady Jane. He sat for some time at the small table at the window of his room; it overlooked a large vegetable garden, but all was dark now, and he felt wracked with doubt. Doubt about Jane herself-never. Doubt in himself. He finally wrote:

My Dearest Jane, Even your doubtful letter was the sweetest part of my day because it came from you, but I cannot lie: These have been difficult hours in my life. Hilary returned almost instantly to London, expressing grave concerns about my chances here before he left. I have constant visions of Thomas and Toto in their sorrow and feel I have shirked my duty in leaving, whatever the purpose. I can’t help but think that the two deaths that I take it still dominate the papers there might have been cleared away under my eye.