She was a wonderfully good housekeeper, scrupulously clean and neat in everything. Hospitable too; perhaps too hospitable, seeing her husband was the same. Hospitable people get encroached upon, you know. The people who receive from them salve their consciences by making themselves believe the givers are well off. Like most beliefs it is rotten, and worse than rotten.
However, her health failed, and after the birth of her last child she was never much better than an invalid. But long before this the mill had been given up and a farm taken. That was a very bad stroke of business. Farming in England so rarely pays, and millers on the whole are prosperous.
So it was the farmer found himself at forty-four a poor man with a large family. Not that he would admit he was poor. He lived on the same scale as he had always lived, and his wife never for one moment dreamt it was a hard struggle to make headway.
He was reserved, and he was sensitive, and lacking in that courage and determination which are essential to the business man. He loved peace above all things, and though energetic and industrious he seemed to have no power of bringing this energy and industry to good account.
When, therefore, his wife, now an invalid, tried expensive medicine after medicine in the hopes of recovery, he paid the bills cheerfully and never complained. And she, thinking the money always ready, would take perhaps but a little of this, or a little of that, and leave the rest untouched. It was the struggle to recover a lost constitution. Poor thing! who could blame her? And he—why, poor thing too!—he too may be excused. But in the midst of this heavy strain upon his finances there suddenly came heavy losses on the farm.
One year the potato crop entirely failed and other crops were poor as well. Then the cows had pneumonia, and several had to be killed. Seven calves were shot together in the little field at the back of the farmyard. Then the sheep had footrot, and after that two horses died, and both were good and valuable. They were very dark days, terribly dark days, but never one word of complaint was heard to pass the farmer’s lips.
Had he been wise he would have given the farm up then and there and have turned his sons out into some business, or at least his eldest son. But, unfortunately, his eldest son was no good at figures or books or lessons, and though he had the best intention in the world to work, and much pluck in sticking to what he could do, he seemed incapable of taking any situation that befitted his position as the son of a well-to-do and much-respected farmer. The second son, a lad of about sixteen, was absorbed heart and soul in the farm. He loved it, and he worked well on it, therefore it was as well he should stay there. The third boy was a mere child of twelve. But besides having to think for his sons, the farmer had also to bear in mind his daughters, and of these he had five.
The eldest was a girl of about eighteen. She was tall and pretty, with a certain distinction that made people turn to look at her. The second girl was about fourteen, good-natured and easy-going at that age, as after. The third was a girl of about eleven, fond of dressing, fond of admiration, impulsive and warm-hearted. The fourth was a girl of five. Very fat and very pretty. She was sturdy and fought to go to school when she was three, so she went and stuck to it. The fifth was little better than a baby, just turned four, puny and delicate.
So the farm was pretty full, you see, and it could be no light task to provide suitably for them all.