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 piqué, 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 passed 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 grasshoppers 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.