Uncle Silas, J. Sheridan Le Fanu [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

sake, but shopping with opportunities of peculation still more. She she had had her luncheon, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely what I now most desired⁠—she proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money; and thus entrusted, left me at liberty to keep tryst at the Chestnut Hollow.

So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew my uncle’s windows did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make the mill-sails revolve; and as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working.

We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of the Windmill Wood, with her former order to call “I’ve found it,” as loudly as she could, in case she should see anyone approaching.

I stopped at the point of our yesterday’s meeting. I peered under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hawkes awaiting me.

XXII The Letter

“Come away, lass,” whispered Beauty, very pale; “he’s here⁠—Tom Brice.”

And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher⁠—he might answer for either⁠—with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder against the trunk.

“Don’t ye mind; sit ye still, lad,” said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. “Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He’ll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi’ na ye, lad?”

“E’es, I’ll take it,” he replied, holding out his hand.

“Tom Brice, you won’t deceive me?”

“Noa, sure,” said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.

“You are an honest English lad, Tom⁠—you would not betray me?” I was speaking imploringly.

“Noa, sure,” repeated Tom.

There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance of this light-haired youth, with the sharpish upturned nose. Throughout our interview he said next to nothing, and smiled lazily to himself, like a man listening to a child’s solemn nonsense, and leading it on, with an amused irony, from one wise sally to another.

Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the least intending to be offensive, was listening to me with a profound and lazy mockery.

I could not choose, however; and, such as he was, I must employ him or none.

“Now, Tom Brice, a great deal depends on this.”

“That’s true for her, Tom Brice,” said Meg, who now and then confirmed my asseverations.

“I’ll give you a pound now, Tom,” and I placed the coin and the letter together in his hand. “And you are to give this letter to Lady Knollys, at Elverston; you know Elverston, don’t you?”

“He does, Miss. Don’t ye, lad?”

“E’es.”

“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.”

“Tom,” I said, with a sudden inspiration, “give me back the letter, and take me out of Bartram; take me to Elverston; it will be the best thing⁠—for you, Tom, I mean⁠—it will indeed⁠—that ever befell you.”

With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was on his sleeve. I was gazing imploringly in his face.

But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the trees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter.

“I’ll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don’t know they lads; they bain’t that easy come over; and I won’t get knocked on the head, nor sent to gaol ’appen, for no good to thee nor me. There’s Meg there, she knows well enough I could na’ manage that; so I won’t try it, Miss, by no chance; no offence, Miss; but I’d rayther not, an’ I’ll just try what I can make o’this; that’s all I can do for ye.”

Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the direction of the Windmill Wood.

“Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye’ll not tell o’ me?”

“Whar ’ill ye