"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."
"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"
"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"
"I won't believe it," said I, turning angrily upon the pillow. "It is not in human nature; and few can rise above the weakness of their kind."
"Listen to me, Geoffrey," said Harrison, seating himself on the side of the bed. "You wished very much at one time to learn from me the story of my past life. I did not think it prudent at that time, and while under Robert Moncton's roof, to gratify your curiosity. I will do so now, in the hope of beguiling you out of your present morbid state of feeling, while it may answer the purpose of teaching you a good, moral lesson, which I trust you will not easily forget.
"Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sympathy of others. His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when contrasted with the miseries of his neighbours, particularly if their sorrows happen to exceed his own.
"Much of my history must remain in the shade, because time alone can unravel the mystery by which I am surrounded; and many important passages in my life, prudence forces me to conceal. But, my dear fellow, if my trials and sufferings will in any way reconcile you to your lot, and enable you to bear with fortitude your own, your friend will not have suffered and sinned in vain."
George adjusted my pillows, and gave me my medicine, stirred the fire to a cheerful blaze, and commenced the narrative that for so many months I had so ardently longed to hear.
"Perhaps, Geoffrey, you are not aware that your grandfather left Sir Robert Moncton, the father of the present Baronet, guardian and trustee to his two sons, until they arrived at their majority; Edward at the time of his death, being eighteen years of age, Robert a year and a half younger.
"What tempted Geoffrey Moncton to leave his sons to the guardianship of the aristocratic father, from whom he had parted in anger many years before, no one could tell.
"The Baronet was a very old man, and was much respected in his day; and it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he could place more reliance on the honour of a gentleman, than in a man of business. Or it might be, that on his death-bed he repented of the long family estrangement, and left his sons to the care of their grandfather, as a proof that all feelings of animosity were buried in his grave.