This state of things lasted for several days, and all the while the hard struggle between the remedies and the disease went on, a hand-to-hand fight indeed, and Cheriton’s strength ebbed away, till he knew that he dared wait no longer for what he wanted to say.
It had been raining, but the yellow, level light of an October evening was shining through the thinly-clothed boughs of the great elms, and lighting up the russet and amber of the woodlands; while the purple hills beyond were still heavy with clouds—clouds receding more and more as the clear blue spread over the sky.
As Cheriton listened to the noise of the rooks, and looked out at the sunset, he recalled the awe and strange curiosity, the clinging to the dear home, to the dearer love which had made life so dear; the attempted submission, the dim trust that death, if it came, must be well for him, with which he had first said to himself that he must die; remembered, too, other hours, when, in weakness of body and anguish of soul, he had found it still harder to believe that it must be well for him that he should live. The passionate joy, the passionate sorrow, had passed away, or rather, had been offered at last as a willing sacrifice, and the loving kindly spirit had found sweetness in life without the first, while much anxiety, much trying disappointment, had succeeded to the second. Now there came over him a wonderful peace, as he summoned his strength for what he had in his mind to say.
With a look and sign he called Alvar over to him; and Jack, who was sitting apart in the window, watched and listened.
“Alvar,” he said, taking hold of his hand, “I see it clearly.” And the intent, wide-open eyes, seemed to Jack as if they could indeed look beyond the mists of life. “We were wrong to wish you like ourselves. Forgive me. You—yourself—can be as good for Oakby as—I—yes—as my father. But there is only one way for us both—to love God with all our hearts, and our neighbour as ourself. To take pains about it for His sake. That is the truth, Alvar—the truth as I know it!”
“Ah!” cried Alvar, “but I do not love my neighbours! that is the difference. But I love you, oh! my brother—my brother! Is it religion that will make me what you wish? I will be religious; I will no longer be careless; but oh, caro—caro mio! if I lose you, I have no heart to change. I have grieved you. Oh! what punishment is there for me? I would do penance like Manoel. What can I do?”
Alvar flung himself on his knees, the tears started in his eyes and choked his voice. At last he was stirred to the depths, and instincts deeper than teaching or training came to the surface.
“You know Who bore our sins for us,” said Cheriton, “because He loved us.”
How much, or how little, Alvar knew, after his formal teaching, and careless, unmoved youth, would be hard to say; probably Cheriton could not conceive how little; but face, voice, and manner had moved Alvar’s soul to a great conviction, however little he realised what Cheriton had meant to say.
He called on that name which his brothers had never heard from his lips before, save in some careless foreign oath.