Chapter Eleven.
Rich in Love.
As long as she lived, Florence Heathcote never forgot that week which she spent with the Arbuthnots. They belonged to that noble race of people who live for others. They were not rich—indeed, far from that, they were extremely poor. Had any one been told the exact extent of Colonel Arbuthnot’s income, that person would have stared and refused to believe it. But then the person would not have known Susie’s saving powers, her wonderful capability for making tenpence do the work of a shilling, for never losing a penny’s worth in any transaction, and for renovating her old garments so that they looked almost like new. The money she was allowed for clothes she spent, as a rule, on other people. What did it matter if her hat was last year’s fashion when poor Mrs Jones and Mary Bryce got their nourishing soup, and when the orphan child of that gallant fellow, William Engelhart, was taught by her to read and write, and she paid the necessary money for his small education? The fact was, fashionable hats, jackets, and skirts would not have become Susie in the very least: she would have looked absolutely out of place in them. No one ever looked at Susie Arbuthnot’s clothes: the eye was arrested by the kindliness in the kindly face, by the smile round the good-natured lips, by the strength and firmness of purpose of that hand grip, by the noble soul that radiated from that somewhat homely countenance.
And if Susie was good and could do good, she was but her father’s complement. Each seemed to complete the character. There never had been before, nor ever since, a father and daughter so wholly and completely one. They had the same tastes, the same desires. Life with them was a little season to be spent in the school of the Almighty. It was the will of God that they should learn His lessons, and they learned them with submission, with cheerfulness, and without a thought of grumbling. The books they liked best were books that spoke about a future state. Often on Sunday evenings they sat close together, talking of that period when they should lay down for ever this vile body, and put on the celestial body. But they were not morbid in their conversations. They were always simple, and homely and direct. It was their pleasure to do what little good they could. Every one loved them at Langdale, and they were the life and light of the place.
The Colonel was just as economical in the matter of clothes as Susie. That winter overcoat of his must have seen the light for long years—one might almost say, generations. Its original black had changed to a musty green, but at one time it had been cut by a fashionable tailor, and, somehow or other, the Colonel looked well in it. He was very upright, as all well-drilled men are, and he walked with a certain martial stride, holding his head erect, and looking all the world in the face. He was not ashamed of himself or of anybody else. He hated sin and wickedness, and smallnesses and the love of riches, and would fight against these things to his dying day. But he sincerely pitied those who had sinned and had repented. As to the poor of this world—those who were a little poorer than himself—he took them under his special protection.
“Dear me, Susie,” he would say; “I think we might ask little Miss Hudson on a visit. The weather is so cold, and I am persuaded the little creature cannot afford a fire in her bedroom. It would never do to ask her the question, but while the intense cold lasts, it would be nice to have her here. She could go on teaching the Hibbert children, and come to us for her meals, and have the enjoyment of her snug little room with a bright fire in it in the evenings. I could fancy how she would luxuriate at the flicker of the firelight as she dropped asleep.”
Susie acquiesced, of course, but Florence, who was present, said—
“That is all very well; but what is Miss Hudson to do when she leaves you, Colonel?”
“We’ll keep her as long as the cold weather lasts,” said the Colonel, rubbing his hands. “She can go back to her own rooms when the weather becomes mild. Run round to her early this morning, Susie, my love; and be sure you have something specially appetising for dinner.”
Susie promised with that bright glance of hers and a smile which irradiated her face for a moment and then left it grave and practical. She meant to have a dinner of bones that day, and a bone dinner would not do for Miss Hudson. Florence had been initiated into the bone dinners, and they were really quite remarkable. They were so good that she quite enjoyed them; but they were never spoken about. They consisted of two or three pennyworth of bones, which were boiled down to make a strong soup, into which was introduced every known vegetable that Susie could lay her hands on out of the garden. No one ever spoke of the absence of meat on the day when the bone dinner appeared. Each person received a portion of bone with the rich gravy and vegetables, and it would have been considered very incorrect not to praise the delicious, tender repast. The Colonel as a rule said, “What good meat we get from our butcher,” and Susie nodded, picking at her bone viciously as she did so, knowing quite well that she would not get one morsel of meat from it.