It was arranged that Anna should go and stay with Ronald Slingsby's people until the time came for her wedding; it was to take place in about three months. The old familiar home was to be broken up. They spent two or three busy days together, sorting out furniture, settling what was to be sold and what either of them would like to keep; regretfully deciding that this or that relic of old days was "rubbish" and must be destroyed, redolent though it was with memories. Many a sigh, many a laugh, the old things drew from them; forgotten pass-words of childish intimacy came back to mind; ancient squabbles were recalled with fond amusement. They lived the old days over again together. The consciousness that the old days were finally over, that their paths in life lay henceforth far apart, gave added tenderness to recollection, making this good-bye to the old house and the old things a good-bye to the old days also—even in some sense a good-bye to one another.
So it had to be, and so in truth it was best. They were not made to live together. Differences now submerged beneath the waves of a common love and a common emotion would rise to the surface again, a menace to their love and peace. Both knew it—was there not the memory of Arthur's former visit to remind them?—and acquiesced in the separation which their lots in life imposed. Yet with sadness. When the actual moment came for leaving the old house and one another, Anna threw herself into her brother's arms, sobbing. "We mustn't quite forget one another, Arthur!"
"Please God, never, my dear," he answered gravely. "We've shared too much together for that."
"You'll come to the wedding?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "You'll be friends with Ronald?"
"Yes, yes, indeed I will. Why not?"
"He's not narrow or uncharitable really. It's only that his standards are so high," she pleaded.
"I know—and I hope mine'll get a little higher. Anyhow we shall be jolly good friends, you'll see. Come, this isn't really good-bye, Anna!"
She kissed him tenderly, whispering, "I shall pray for you always, Arthur," and so turned from him to Ronald, who was to escort her on her journey to his mother's house at Worcester. Arthur left Malvern later in the same day, to spend his Christmas at Hilsey.
He went from his old home to a new one; the manner of his welcome assured him of that plainly. They were all—even Godfrey—at the station to meet him. Their greetings, a little subdued in deference to his sorrow, seemed full of gladness, even of pride, that they should be there to soothe and soften it, that he should have Hilsey to turn to, now that the links with his old life were broken. When they got him to the house, they shewed him, with exulting satisfaction, a new feature, a surprise which Judith had conceived and Godfrey gladly agreed in carrying out—a room, next to his old bedroom, fitted up as a "den" for his exclusive use, artfully supplied with all male appurtenances and comforts, a place where he could be his own master, a visible sign that he was no more a guest but a member of the household.
"Well, this is something like!" said Arthur, squeezing Margaret's little hand in his and looking at Judith's eyes, which shone with pleasure over the pretty surprise she had contrived for him.