"Quite a little Italian woman grown! Like your mother though," he said, and then speaking over my head to the Bishop, who sat on the other side of the room, he added:
"Guess this will do, Bishop, eh?"
"Perfectly," said the Bishop.
I was colouring in confusion at the continued scrutiny, with a feeling of being looked over for some unexplained purpose, when the Reverend Mother called me, and turning to go to her I saw, by the look of pain on her face that she, too, had been hurt by it.
She put me to sit on a stool by the side of her chair, and taking my right hand she laid it in her lap and held it there during the whole of the interview.
The Bishop, whom I had never seen before, was the first to speak. He was a type of the fashionable ecclesiastic, suave, smiling, faultlessly dressed in silk soutane and silver buckled shoes, and wearing a heavy gold chain with a jewelled cross.
"Reverend Mother," he said, "you would gather from Mr. O'Neill's letter that he wishes to remove his daughter immediately—I presume there will be no difficulty in his doing so?"
The Reverend Mother did not speak, but I think she must have bent her head.
"Naturally," said the Bishop, "there will be a certain delay while suitable clothes are being made for her, but I have no doubt you will give Mr. O'Neill your help in these preparations."
My head was down, and I did not see if the Reverend Mother bowed again. But the two gentlemen, apparently satisfied with her silence, began to talk of the best date for my removal, and just when I was quivering with fear that without a word of protest I was to be taken away, the Reverend Mother said:
"Monsignor!"
"Reverend Mother!"
"You are aware that this child"—here she patted my trembling hand—"has been with me for ten years?"
"I am given to understand so."
"And that during that time she has only once been home?"
"I was not aware—but no doubt it is as you say."
"In short, that during the greater part of her life she has been left to my undivided care?"
"You have been very good to her, very, and I'm sure her family are extremely grateful."
"In that case, Monsignor, doesn't it seem to you that I am entitled to know why she is being so suddenly taken away from me, and what is the change in life which Mr. O'Neill referred to in his letter?"
The smile which had been playing upon the Bishop's face was smitten away from it by that question, and he looked anxiously across at my father.
"Tell her," said my father, and then, while my heart thumped in my bosom and the Reverend Mother stroked my hand to compose me, the Bishop gave a brief explanation.
The time had not come when it would be prudent to be more definite, but he might say that Mr. O'Neill was trying to arrange a happy and enviable future for his daughter, and therefore he wished her to return home to prepare for it.
"Does that mean marriage?" said the Reverend Mother.
"It may be so. I am not quite prepared to … "
"And that a husband has already been found for her?"
"That too perhaps. I will not say … "
"Monsignor," said the Reverend Mother, sitting up with dignity "is that fair?"
"Fair?"
"Is it fair that after ten years in which her father has done nothing for her, he should determine what her life is to be, without regard to her wish and will?"
I raised my eyes and saw that the Bishop looked aghast.
"Reverend Mother, you surprise me," he said. "Since when has a father ceased to be the natural guardian of his child? Has he not been so since the beginning of the world? Doesn't the Church itself build its laws on that foundation?"
"Does it?" said the Reverend Mother shortly. And then (I could feel her hand trembling as she spoke): "Some of its servants do, I know. But when did the Church say that anybody—no matter who—a father or anybody else—should take the soul of another, and control it and govern it, and put it in prison? … "
"My good lady," said the Bishop, "would you call it putting the girl in prison to marry her into an illustrious family, to give her an historic name, to surround her with the dignity and distinction … "
"Bishop," said my father, raising his hand, "I guess it's my right to butt in here, isn't it?"
I saw that my father's face had been darkening while the Reverend Mother spoke, and now, rolling his heavy body in his chair so as to face her, he said:
"Excuse me, ma'am, but when you say I've done nothing for my gel here I suppose you'll allow I've kept her and educated her?"
"You've kept and educated your dogs and horses, also, I dare say, but do you claim the same rights over a human being?"
"I do, ma'am—I think I do. And when the human being happens to be my own daughter I don't allow that anybody else has anything to say."
"If her mother were alive would she have nothing to say?"
I thought my father winced at that word, but he answered:
"Her mother would agree to anything I thought best."
"Her mother, so far as I can see, was a most unselfish, most submissive, most unhappy woman," said the Reverend Mother.
My father glanced quickly at me and then, after a moment, he said:
"I'm obliged to you, ma'am, much obliged. But as I'm not a man to throw words away I'll ask you to tell me what all this means. Does it mean that you've made plans of your own for my daughter without consulting me?"
"No, sir."
"Then perhaps it means that the gel herself … "
"That may be so or not—I cannot say. But when you sent your daughter to a convent-school … "
"Wrong, ma'am, wrong for once. It was my wife's sister—who thinks the gel disobedient and rebellious and unruly … "
"Then your wife's sister is either a very stupid or a very bad-hearted woman."
"Ma'am?"
"I have known your daughter longer than she has, and there isn't a word of truth in what she says."
It was as much as I could do not to fall on the Reverend Mother's neck, but I clung to her hand with a convulsive grasp.
"May be so, ma'am, may be no," said my father. "But when you talk about my sending my daughter to a convent-school I would have you know that I've been so busy with my business … "
"That you haven't had time to take care of the most precious thing God gave you."
"Ma'am," said my father, rising to his feet, "may I ask what right you have to speak to me as if … "
"The right of one who for ten years has been a mother to your motherless child, sir, while you have neglected and forgotten her."
At that my father, whose bushy eyebrows were heavily contracted, turned to the Bishop.
"Bishop," he said, "is this what I've been paying my money for? Ten years' fees, and middling high ones too, I'm thinking?"
And then the Bishop, apparently hoping to make peace, said suavely:
"But aren't we crossing the river before we reach the bridge? The girl herself may have no such objections. Have you?" he asked, turning to me.
I was trembling