“Yes; my duty.”
“But your daughter?”
“She need never see or speak to him or be troubled by him. Jennie is a very sensible, practical young woman; always was so, like her dear mother. And her misfortunes—the result of her one act of imprudence—have made her even more so. Jennie will be no hindrance.”
“But why should you take so much trouble, make such a sacrifice, assume such a responsibility as to carry this stupefied madman to your quiet house?”
“Because, as I said before, it is my duty. I am a minister of the merciful Gospel, however much below that sacred calling, and must set an example of charity—practice some little of what I preach. The man is my daughter’s husband, however unworthy of her; my own son-in-law, however discreditable to me; and I must do my duty by him, however disagreeable to us all. My dear wife and daughter will give no trouble. There will be no scenes, no hysterics. They are good, true, strong women, and will sustain me in my action. But they need not go near the man. Longman, his mother and myself can take care of him. And now, my friend, will you order the conveyance?”
With a sigh and a gesture of deprecation, Ran went out to give the necessary directions.
There had been some delay caused by this discussion; but it did not matter to the unworthy subject of it; he was lying on the carpet in a dead stupor, and for himself was as well there as anywhere else: so there was no hurry.
In less than half an hour a light spring cart, such as is used by expressmen, was brought around from the stables. It was drawn by two horses and furnished with comfortable bedding, and to this receptacle Gentleman Geff was conveyed in the arms of four men.
The rector and the doctor rode on the seat with the driver, and they took the road to the rectory.
Mrs. Campbell and her daughter, declining all Mr. and Mrs. Hay’s pressing invitations, set out in one of the Hall carriages for their home. Longman rode on the box with the coachman.