Four days later Jack Cardew returned home, looking less grave than usual, and not nearly so depressed as a broken-hearted swain should. The complete absence of any despair rather seemed to suggest that there had been meetings with his sweetheart in London.

The Bishop was no simpleton, but he hated deception of any kind. He had commanded his son to continue no more than a casual acquaintance with Mabel Bannister; and Jack had apparently accepted the situation, under the threat of a discontinuation of his allowance of £200 a year. He now saw that his commands were certain to be disobeyed.

He was diplomatically genial to Jack on his return. He took his son's arm and walked him round the garden, discussing local affairs and some Episcopal matters that interested Jack not at all. But discussion with his father while he was in a good temper was not to be lost by the bridegroom, who was faced by the fact that sooner or later he must overcome the Bishop's objections and break the startling news of his marriage. It was not easy.

The Bishop himself broke the ice with a sudden disconcerting question:--

"When did you last see Mabel Bannister, Jack?"

"I have seen her--once--in London," replied the bridegroom evasively, feeling excruciatingly uncomfortable.

"My boy, you think I'm an old fool. I've come to the conclusion that I owe you some further explanation of my objection to Mabel Bannister as your wife. I didn't intend to discuss her any more, but I see it is necessary. Have you met Mr. Bannister?"

"Yes, father, the other evening. I saw him at the club, and introduced myself. He seems a charming man, with the most polished manners. He spoke of you in the highest terms."

"Humph!" grunted the Bishop. "I'm sorry that the admiration is not mutual."

"Why do you object to him, father?"

"My dislike is founded upon things I have heard."

"Heard!" echoed Jack loftily and disdainfully.

"Yes, don't repeat my words. The knowledge came to me when we were at St. Saviour's. I attended the deathbed of a man named Judd, who came to grief through Bannister, and the poor fellow in his last hours was troubled by thoughts of the misery and ruin he had wrought at Bannister's instigation. Judd was once at Oxford, destined for the Church, but he degenerated. He went to the bad, eventually ending as a rascally begging-letter writer; and he died miserably in a garret. I knew him slightly in his Oxford days, then lost sight of him; and when next I came across him it was on his death-bed, rambling, raving, dying. He ascribed his downfall and ruin to this man Bannister. I never understood the nature of the crimes the poor fellow had committed, but he seemed to be much troubled by the recollections of one particular injury done to a woman whom Bannister had ruined. He declared that Bannister made love to a girl in Bath under an assumed name--and there was a child. For reasons of his own, and apparently to keep the matter from the woman's people, the child was taken away by the father and put out to nurse. The girl's relatives knew nothing of her trouble. Then Judd was sent to the woman by Bannister to tell her that the child was dead. It was a lie. That was the first bit of dirty work he did for him. Later Judd was again sent to play the humbug and pitch up a pitiful, plausible tale--this time to tell the woman the story of Bannister's own death. He carried the thing out artistically, and Bannister's demise was even advertised in the usual way in all the papers. Thus Bannister--I forget what his alias was then--passed out of existence so far as the girl was concerned.

"I don't pretend to understand the object of it all, but the thing was vile and disgraceful. The girl was deserted, and the child--God knows what became of that. I sometimes shudder when I remember poor Judd's last shrieking moments, and wonder whether anything more terrible than putting it out to nurse was ever done to the child. I believe Bannister wanted to marry money, and, having concealed his real name and identity from his victim, thought it best to wipe out all record of his guilty intrigue by allowing her to imagine that he was dead."

"An ugly business," murmured Jack. "But, surely, Mabel should not be blamed for her father's youthful sins. Nobody has anything to say against Mr. Bannister now. He is most popular. He is received everywhere. Surely, you wouldn't visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unnecessarily?"

"It is the divine law."

"But, father, you're judging Mr. Bannister, on your own showing, solely from the ravings of a dissolute wreck who had lost all sense of accuracy and fair statement."

"My boy, I cannot forget that betrayed, deserted, ruined woman going through life with her sin heavy upon her. I believe she was a lady of position. And of the little child--where is it now? Grown to womanhood with the passing of years, with neither a mother's nor a father's care, and living a life of penury, if not of shame. What becomes of the children of dissolute men farmed out among harpies and murderesses? You know as well as I do, Jack. You saw something of it at St. Saviour's. You remember the woman I got prosecuted at George Street--the one who got rid of five children in a year, and not one of them her own?"

"The picture you draw is an exaggerated one, father. Men who move in the smart set in London do wild things in their youth, and grow to middle-age as respectable citizens. If you were to drag out all the skeletons from the cupboards of Mayfair they would make a sorry exhibition. Can I love Mabel less because her father was dissolute in his youth? No!" cried Jack hotly.

"Tut-tut, my boy, don't shout at me. I'm not deaf. I told you that I--er--might have been un-Christian and uncharitable. God forbid that I should defame the character of any nice girl because of her father's early sins. Miss Bannister's mother is dead, I understand. No doubt she was well-bred, and brought the money to her husband that he needed. But I don't like the man's record. Is he rich?"

"I don't know, father. You ought to meet him. I'm sure you'd change your opinion. And nothing will alter my regard for Mabel. Your opposition, father, only postpones the day when we come together, in spite of you. We are pledged to one another. But Mr. Bannister naturally refuses his consent to our marriage until you also agree."

"That is very proper of him."

"You really must know Mr. Bannister, father."

"I will."

"Ah!" cried the bridegroom, hugely relieved. His difficulties were already dwindling. In imagination he saw himself and Mabel going again to the altar, and his secret marriage ratified in a full blaze of Episcopal publicity.

"The diocesan conference takes place the week after next," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "We shall have to entertain many people then. It would be easier to ask Mr. Bannister in an informal manner to come to one of the meetings."

Jack smiled grimly at the idea of Mr. Bannister at a church conference.

"He might stay the night," added the Bishop. "I don't want to have to entertain the man alone. Your mother may not like him."

"I'm sure she'll be only too pleased to meet Mabel's father," cried the enthusiastic lover. "No one can be fonder of Mabel than mother."

"Very well, then. He shall be asked."