Chapter 14: Val De Rosas

On the day that Corrie in his American home consented to drive the Mercury Titan through the racing season, Flavia and Mr. Rose arrived at the tiny Spanish village of Val de Rosas—arrived, not so much through design as through the bursting of a tire on their motor car.

“It seems as if the name of the place might be one of our lost titles,” observed Mr. Rose idly. “And there is the castle to match, on the hillside. Come stroll through the town, my girl, while Lenoir repairs damages.”

Smiling, Flavia stepped down beside him, throwing back her silk veils and lifting her fair, almost too delicate face to the Andalusian sunshine. After her stepped a great dog, with the sedate, matter-of-course bearing of a constant attendant.

“I wonder who lives in the castle,” she responded to his mood of playfulness. “Our castle. We should dispossess them.”

“Lets,” proposed her father.

There was an inn in the village, kept by a ravishingly plump landlord of sixty who wore a short velvet jacket. He informed the travellers that the diminutive white castle was not only vacant, but to let, being the property of a mad Englishman who had bought it to live in while writing a book, and having finished the book had departed. Mr. Rose regarded his daughter speculatively.

“We have been going from one place to another for five months, and we have got to put in six more,” he said with brief decisiveness. “I mean to stay on this side of the water until fall. Do you want to try living here for a while, or would you rather keep moving?”

“Let us stay here,” Flavia voted eagerly. “Dear, I am so tired of hotels.”

Mr. Rose studied her as she stood, slim and frail, before him, her large eyes fixed on his.

“I guess we are tired of more than that, you and I,” he pronounced. “But I’ll run up and see if the place can be made fit to live in. You had better rest here, in the shade; Frederick will take care of you and Lenoir is within call. Here, señor, set a chair here under these trees.”

She moved to the seat placed for her by the deferential host, and watched her father’s departure up the winding road. They were both thinking of Corrie, lacking whom all places were blank, with whom, in one winter’s enthusiasm, they had studied this soft Spanish tongue they now used without him. They had planned a trip to Puerto Rico, then, that never had been taken. But Flavia also was thinking of Allan Gerard—Allan Gerard, who loved Isabel and for whose sake Flavia carried a double sorrow, his and her own. As he had found excuses in his mind for her apparent failure of him, so she on her part never had blamed him for what she considered her own misunderstanding of his purpose. They were not given to the small vice of ready condemnation. There is no comfort in blaming the one loved, where the love is great.

A murmur of wondering dismay aroused Flavia from her musing, a sound scarcely louder than the murmur of the bees busied among the heavy waxen-white lemon-blossoms overhead. She lifted her chin from her hand, and saw a brown-haired, brown-skinned, brown-eyed girl standing on the path, gazing at the huge dog that barred her passage.

“Pray do not be frightened,” Flavia begged. “Come here, Frederick! Indeed, he is only a young dog and very gentle.”

“He is very large, señorita,” the girl smiled, half-reassured, half-fearful. “He bites, no?”

“No, indeed. See.”

“He loves the señorita. That does not surprise,” with Latin grace of compliment.

Flavia smiled, too, drawing the Great Dane’s bulky head against her knee.

“I love him, perhaps.”

“One sees it, since he voyages with the señores in that splendid automobile, where a man might find place with joy.”

A wistfulness in the comment moved the listener to give explanation, almost in apology for lavishing upon an animal what might have rejoiced a human being.

“He is my brother’s dog. But my brother went away, and the poor dog grieved for him all the time, except with me. I could not leave him to fret, without either of us, so he came abroad, too.”

“Across the ocean, señorita?”

“Across the ocean. From America.”

The two young girls considered one another in a pause full of cordial sympathy. Different in race, station and experience, the bond of maidenhood drew them to each other with delicate lines of mutual comprehension and accord.

“It is the dog’s name which is on the great silver-and-leather collar, or the name of the señorita?”

Flavia’s small fair hand guided the plump brown one tracing the legend upon the massive band.

“‘Federigo el Grande, que pertenece á Corwin Basil Rose, Long Island,’” she translated.

“Don Corwin—that does not say itself easily!”

“We called him Corrie.”

“Ah, that I can say; Don Corrie.”

The soft household name sounded yet softer in the Andalusian accents. Flavia looked away, feeling her lips quiver.

“Will you tell me your name?” she asked, by way of diversion. “Mine is Flavia Rose. Perhaps we shall see more of each other, if I stay here and you do also.”

“I am called Elvira Paredes, señorita. And I shall be here—I cannot go for so long, so long, perhaps never.”