And so Frank received another thirty pounds from Prescott, which he accepted without hesitation, believing that Prescott could spare it, and knowing that under similar circumstances his own purse would have been entirely at his friend’s service. For a time, therefore, the Maynards were straight again. The tradesmen’s bills which had pressed so heavily were paid off, and a few things which were most urgently required were purchased.
All this while Fred Bingham had apparently been on friendly terms with Frank: at times he was cold and distant with him, carrying his position as master to the very extreme of what he saw Frank would bear; at other times he chatted with him in the most friendly manner—and it is difficult to say under which mood Frank found it most difficult to keep his temper.
Sometimes he would go up on Sunday afternoon and smoke a pipe on the seat in front of the cottage, chatting with Frank, and ignoring altogether his wife’s short answers and evident dislike of his presence; for Kate, when she did not like any one, made no secret of her feelings.
“You are very high and mighty, my lady,” he said to himself one day, as he drove homewards in his handsome dog-cart, “but I’ll give you something to think of before long.”
A few days afterwards he walked into Frank’s cottage in the afternoon, to Kate’s great astonishment.
“Was just riding by, Mrs. Frank, and thought I would come in to have a chat.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, “but I’m particularly busy to-day.”
“Oh, don’t mind me, Mrs. Frank. I’m no stranger, you know.”
“I wish you were,” Kate muttered, half audibly.
“I wanted to talk to you about Frank. You see this life is a very hard one for him, and it is greatly to be wished that something could be done for him.”