"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?"