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."