Plato and Pomp now emerged from the mist, each leading a mule; one of these animals was attached to a wagon which had two seats, and the other to a rough cart.
“Will you get in, please?” said Cicely, going towards the wagon. “I reckon your maid had better come with us.”
“Meadows! Meadows!” called Miss Bruce. “Never mind the luggage; it is quite safe. You are to come with us in this wagon.”
“Yes, mem,” responded the English voice. The girl had ceased running; but she still stood guard over the trunks. “And shall I bring the dressing-bags with me, mem?” she added.
“She is bringing them whether or no,” said her mistress; “I knew she would. She likes to pretend that one contains a gold-mounted dressing-case and the other a jewel-casket; she is accustomed to such things, and considers them the proper appendages of a lady.” Her voice still had to herself a forced sound. But Cicely noticed nothing.
The two ladies climbed into the wagon and placed themselves on the back seat; Meadows, still hugging the supposed treasures, mounted gingerly to her place beside Uncle Abram, disarmed a little by his low brows; and then, after some persuasion, the mule was induced to start, the cart with the luggage following behind, Plato and Pomp beside it. The road was deeply covered with sand; both mules could do no more than walk. At last, after passing the barrier of sand-hills, they came to firmer ground; bushes began to appear, and then low trees. The trees all slanted westward.
“The wind,” Cicely explained.
The drive lasted half an hour. “Meadows, put down those bags,” said Eve; “they are too heavy for you. But not too near Mrs. Bruce—to trouble her.”
The wagon was passing between two high gate-posts (there was no gate); it entered an avenue bordered with trees whose boughs met overhead, shutting out the moonlight. But Uncle Abram knew the way; and so did the mule, who conducted his wagon over the remaining space, and up to the porch of a large low house, in a sudden wild gallop. “Hi-yi!” said Uncle Abram, warningly; “All ri’, den, ef yer wanter,” he added, rattling the reins. “Lippity-clip!”
The visitor’s eyes perceived lights, an open door, and two figures waiting within. The wagon stopped, and Meadows dismounted from her perch. But Cicely, before following her, put her face close to Eve’s, and whispered: “I’d better tell you now, so that you won’t call me that again—before the others: I’m not Mrs. Bruce any longer; my name is Morrison. I married Ferdinand Morrison six months ago.” After this stupefying declaration she pressed Eve’s hand, and, jumping lightly to the ground, called out, “Bring the steps, some of you.”