'Well, do so, Tom, and I'll be good to you so long as I live.'
'D'ye hear, lad?'
'E'es,' said Tom; 'it's very good.'
'You'll take the letter, Tom?' I said, in much greater trepidation as to his answer than I showed.
'E'es, I'll take the letter,' said he, rising, and turning it about in his fingers under his eye, like a curiosity.
'Tom Brice,' I said, 'If you can't be true to me, say so; but don't take the letter except to give it to Lady Knollys, at Elverston. If you won't promise that, let me have the note back. Keep the pound; but tell me that you won't mention my having asked you to carry a letter to Elverston to anyone.'
For the first time Tom looked perfectly serious. He twiddled the corner of my letter between his finger and thumb, and wore very much the countenance of a poacher about to be committed.
'I don't want to chouce ye, Miss; but I must take care o' myself, ye see. The letters goes all through Silas's fingers to the post, and he'd know damn well this worn't among 'em. They do say he opens 'em, and reads 'em before they go; an' that's his diversion. I don't know; but I do believe that's how it be; an' if this one turned up, they'd all know it went be hand, and I'd be spotted for't.'
'But you know who I am, Tom, and I'd save you,' said I, eagerly.
'Ye'd want savin' yerself, I'm thinkin', if that feel oot,' said Tom, cynically. 'I don't say, though, I'll not take it—only this—I won't run my head again a wall for no one.'