“Two pounds a week.”
“Really two pounds a week?”
“Yes, that is the exact figure.”
Alice Heathcote drew her breath hard. Then she got up and rang the bell. The servant came.
“James, show Mr. Bingham to the door; and, remember, he is never to be admitted unless my uncle is at home.”
Fred Bingham hesitated, but there was a look of white anger in Alice’s face that warned him she was perfectly in earnest, and as she stood looking more even than her natural height in her passion, with her compressed lips, and little clenched hands, Fred thought that for once he had gone too far, and without a word, went out.
When James had left the room, Alice walked up and down for a few times; and then, throwing herself upon the sofa, cried bitterly. Presently she rose, went up to her room, and wrote a note:—
“Dear Mr. Prescott,
“The matter on which I write is between ourselves alone, and I rely upon you to keep it so. Although matters have occurred which make it impossible that the breach between your friend and us can ever be healed, still it pains me beyond description to hear that he is working down in Yorkshire from morning to night upon pay which can scarcely keep him and his family from starvation. I would do anything to save him from this wretched state; but he will, I know, accept nothing at my hands. I enclose three ten pound notes. You will understand that I enclose this sum only, because I know that he would not receive more. Will you do me the very great kindness to manage it as a loan from yourself? It is a harmless fraud, and I can think of no other method. Will you tell him you have had a heavy case on, and are enabled, without hurting yourself, to offer him the money without inconvenience? Please do this, Mr. Prescott. I ask you, both for your friend’s sake, and in the name of the long standing regard which has always existed between yourself and yours sincerely,
“Alice Heathcote.”