When the small holdings had been left far in the rear and rocky hills rose beyond the fertile fields, his assumed 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 shells 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 clusters 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.