Christabel's pale calm face showed no sign of the mental strain of the last twenty-four hours. There was such a relief in having done with the false life which she had been leading in the past month; such an infinite comfort in being able to fall back into her old self; such an unspeakable relief, too, in the sense of having saved herself on the very brink of the black gulf of sin, that it was almost as if peace and gladness had returned to her soul. Once again she had sought for comfort at the one Divine source of consolation; once more she had dared to pray; and this tardy resumption of the old sweet habit of girlhood seemed like a return to some dear home from which she had been long banished. Even those who knew so little of her real character were able to see the change in her countenance.
"What a lovely expression Mrs. Tregonell has to-day!" murmured Mr. Faddie to his neighbour, Mrs. St. Aubyn, tenderly replenishing her hock glass, as a polite preliminary to filling his own. "So soft; so Madonna-like!"
"I suppose she is rather sorry for having driven away her husband," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, severely. "That has sobered her."
"There are depths in the human soul which only the confessor can sound," answered Mr. Faddie, who would not be betrayed into saying anything uncivil about his hostess. "Would that she might be led to pour her griefs into an ear attuned to every note in the diapason of sorrow."
"I don't approve of confession, and I never shall bring myself to like it," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, sturdily. "It is un-English!"
"But your Rubric, dear lady. Surely you stand by your Rubric?"
"If you mean the small print paragraphs in my prayer book, I never read 'em," answered the Squire's wife, bluntly. "I hope I know my way through the Church Service without any help of that kind."
Mr. Faddie sighed at this Bœotian ignorance, and went on with his luncheon. It might be long before he partook of so gracious a meal. A woman whose Church views were so barbarous as those of Mrs. St. Aubyn, might keep a table of primitive coarseness. A Squire Westernish kind of fare might await him in the St. Aubyn mansion.
An hour later, he pressed Christabel's hand tenderly as he bade her good-bye. "A thousand thanks for your sweet hospitality," he murmured, gently. "This visit has been most precious to me. It has been a privilege to be brought nearer the lives of those blessed martyrs, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus; to renew my acquaintance with dear Saint Mertheriana, whose life I only dimly remembered; to kneel at the rustic shrines of Saint Ulette and Saint Piran. It has been a period of mental growth, the memory of which I shall ever value."
And then, with a grave uplifting of two fingers, and a blessing on the house, Mr. Faddie went off to his place beside Clara St. Aubyn, on the back seat of the landau which was to convey the departing guests to the Bodmin Road Station, a two-hours' drive through the brisk autumn air.