[Ill.u.s.tration: Moorish Tower at the Port of Alcudia]

XXIX

LAST DAYS

The golden months had flown past, speeding so swiftly that we felt as though time must have defrauded us. Scarcely a day seemed to have elapsed after our return from Iviza before we were saying, "Next week we must go home."

But before beginning preparation for departure, three days were our own. Three clear days in which to take a real lazy holiday; for though the holiday spirit had pervaded our wanderings, we had all been working hard. To be really idle we knew we must seek a spot already familiar to us, one that offered no temptation to register fresh impressions. And a brief family conclave found us unanimous in the opinion that the port of Alcudia, from which, in January, we had sailed to Minorca, was the ideal place.

Friday morning found us at La Puebla station, mounting the little one-horse diligence that runs to and from Alcudia in connection with the trains.

I shared the box-seat with a semi-comatose driver, a big box, a bigger sack, a loaf of bread, and sundry nondescript parcels.

Besides my people, the only occupant of the interior was a bronzed young man who had travelled in the same compartment with us from Palma.

In the train the studied perfection of his dress had made me wonder on what errand of ceremony he was bound. His trousers and waistcoat were of very light pique, his coat of shining black alpaca. His linen was new, his tie resplendent; his watch-chain of linked metals was an inch broad; his face beamed with expectancy; his whole being seemed to vibrate with glad impatience.

The way to Alcudia pa.s.sed through a rural district, running at first by many small holdings, where patient mules were turning water-wheels to irrigate the little fields where their masters were hard at work.

The driver, curling himself up in his corner of the box-seat, dozed off after the manner of diligence drivers who have started on their first journey long before dawn. The horse, taking advantage of his master's somnolence, walked more and more and more slowly, until at intervals the driver, unwillingly opening half an eye to see how far we had progressed and finding us almost at a standstill, would urge him on with opprobrious words.

The day was lovely--how often I seem to have written that! In the lush green corn gra.s.shoppers were chirping. By the wayside the convolvulus was opening its big pink cups. And in the dark interior of the diligence the bronzed man was telling his story.

He was a son of the district towards which we were slowly advancing.

His parents had a wayside _taverna_ and a tiny farm. But in the family there were many mouths to feed, and though in Majorca there was always food for all, money was scarce. So five years ago he had gone to Algeria to push his fortunes. Now, having made a little money, he was returning, without warning of his coming, to his old home. As to the future? Well, that was for his parents to decide.

One did not require to be told that the five years of exile had been industrious and frugal ones. Now the great moment was at hand. He was already experiencing the expectant joy of the returning wanderer.

When the small holdings had been left far in the rear and rocky hills rose beyond the fertile fields, his a.s.sumed composure vanished. He became frankly excited, eagerly watching the lonely road and scanning the fields for sign of familiar forms and faces.

As the coach made a momentary pause while the driver delivered a loaf and an amorphous parcel to a road-mender, the Exile, thrusting his head from the back window, shouted greeting. And the roadman, recognizing an old friend, ran after the already receding coach to grasp him warmly by the hand.

The driver was wide-awake now, and evidently determined to make up for lost time. And the cigars our Exile wished to give the _caminero_ had to be thrown on the road, from which with grateful nods and smiles he picked them up.

As he drew near his old home the Exile, though even more keenly alert, became silent. When the little _taverna_ by the wayside came in sight the driver, rising to the occasion, put on pace and pulled up before the door in grand style.

The unusual sight of the coach stopping brought the old _tavernero_ and his wife to the wide doorway. From my perch on the box I saw their expressions change from surprise to amazed delight. It was the father--a typical Majorcan with a hale spare figure and shrewd kindly face--who, advancing first, seized his exultant son in his arms. The mother held back a moment, quivering with joyous emotions, her lips parted in speechless welcome. Then, running forward, she fell upon his neck.

The host and hostess of the Fonda Marina gave us hearty welcome, and, as before, heaped benefits upon us. In our three months of absence young Cristobal had grown perceptibly. He was at school now, and had already learned to recite in Spanish sing-song the days of the week and the months of the year.

Our former rooms overlooking the bay were vacant, and for three long summer days we wandered as we listed--over the white sands, which were now rich with the rare sh.e.l.ls and scarlet coral for which, on our previous visit, I had looked in vain; or among the pines, whose sun-distilled fragrance mingled with the sea air. One radiant morning we took a luncheon basket and wandered as far as the Albufera, but at all other times the excellent cooking of the mistress of the _fonda_ lured us back in time for meals.

The few people we encountered looked pleasantly at us. And the Captain of the Port--a retired naval officer who spent much of his time fishing from a boat moored at his own front door--most courteously called, and presented me with a bouquet sent by the ladies of his house.

Monday evening saw us back at the Casa Tranquila. With Tuesday began the uncongenial labour of dissolution; for the little house that during the never-to-be-forgotten months had been our headquarters had to be emptied of its contents. Our belongings were few in number, but our manner of living had brought us into such intimate relations with them that we felt personal interest in each article.

We had developed quite an affection for our yellow cups and saucers with their crude bunches of red and blue flowers; and our chocolate-pot of brown and yellow native ware, with its perforated lid and wooden pestle, ranked as a family friend.

The great vine that during the first months of our stay had converted the veranda into an airy bower was again covered with foliage and with embryonic cl.u.s.ters of grapes that some more lucky tenants would enjoy. The rose-bushes that had bloomed all winter were sending out an abundance of bud-laden shoots. Ripe lemons still clung to the higher branches of the tree, though the new fruit was already formed.

There was scant time for all we had to do. Yet we managed to pay good-bye visits; to take final peeps at our favourite haunts; to secure on behalf of a poultry-fancying friend a setting of the eggs of certain Moorish-looking fowls whose jet black bodies were topped by huge white feather turbans; to dig up bulbs of the most curious kinds of fly orchis for another friend who is so fortunate as to possess a "wonder garden."

Our final day, which rushed upon us before we had steeled ourselves to meet it, was deplorably wet. It seemed as though the climate that had treated us so generously was weeping at the thought of our departure.

We lunched daintily at the home of our good friends the Consul and his wife. Then came the moment when, for the last time, the bells of Bartolome's chariot jingled at the door of the Casa Tranquila, and the neighbours came out to wish us G.o.d-speed. None of them came empty-handed. Pepe brought his finest carnations. The Andalusian lady, her entire brood clinging to her matronly skirts, also offered flowers, and the retired gentleman who lived in the lordly mansion across the way hastened to cut his choicest roses.

So with the carriage full of fragrant evidence of good will, we drove off, to pause a moment at Apolonia's door to bid her farewell.

At the distribution of odds and ends a rug and a hat had been allotted to Apolonia. And when she seized this opportunity of thanking us for the trifles sent her, Apolonia spoke appreciatively of the rug, but there were tears in her bright eyes when she referred to the _sombrero_. And that makes one wonder how it is that the utterly useless and incongruous gifts are often the most valued.

The dear old soul had never worn a hat in her life and certainly never would. The article could be of no possible use to her, but perhaps, like Jess in the _Window in Thrums_ with her mantle, she "would aye ken it was there."

As we turned the corner we got a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Pepe carrying a gaily coloured handkerchief containing the discarded suit of the Boy's that had fallen to Pepe's share. Waving the bundle, they indicated that they were already on their way to the tailor's to have the suit altered.

The Angelus was ringing as the _Miramar_ steamed out into the mist.

Standing at the stern, we looked back while the rain-clouds gradually blotted out the town, and thought of the little house at Son Espanolet standing empty and forlorn.

We had hoped that when the inevitable hour of parting came we might leave in one of those magnificent sunsets under which we had so often watched the mail-boat start for Barcelona. But though our last sight of Majorca was veiled with rain and tears, we will always remember it as a land of sunshine and of smiles.