The days for a week after that were very busy ones. Every day some one or two bags were packed, and quietly conveyed at nightfall by Mrs Collenwood’s own man to an inn about four miles distant. Pandora was kept indoors, except one day, when she went with Mrs Collenwood to take leave of Christie. That morning the priest called and expressed a wish to speak to her: but being told that she was gone to see a friend, said he would call again the following day. Of this they were told on their return. Mrs Collenwood’s cheeks paled a little; then, with set lips, and a firm step, she sought her brother in his closet, or as we should say, his study.
“Tom,” she said, when the door was safely shut, “we must be gone this night.”
Mr Roberts looked up in considerable astonishment.
“This night!—what mean you, Frances? The clouds be gathering for rain, and your departure was fixed for Thursday.”
“Ay, the clouds be gathering,” repeated Mrs Collenwood meaningly, “and I am ’feared Pandora, if not I, may be caught in the shower. Have you not heard that Father Bastian desired to speak with her whilst we were hence this morrow? We must be gone, Tom, ere he come again.”
Mr Roberts, who was busy with his accounts, set down a five as the addition of eight and three, with a very faint notion of what he was doing.
“Well!” he said, in an undecided manner. “Well! it is—it is not—it shall look—”
“How should it look,” replied Mrs Collenwood, with quiet incisiveness, “to see Pandora bound to the stake for burning?”
Mr Roberts threw out his hands as if to push away the terrible suggestion.
“It may come to that, Tom, if we tarry. For, without I mistake, the girl is not made of such willowy stuff as—some folks be.”