“A few more years shall roll,” was the thoughtful response of Miss Blandflower, as she gave a final pull to the string and scissors entanglement, which succeeded in blending them all inextricably together for the rest of the afternoon.
Bertie, in spite of her strictures on the wanderings of Lady Argent’s mind, was not deterred from frequently crossing the valley in search of her. She always told Rosamund vigorously that she liked the walk.
“So kind of you, Bertie dear,” her hostess murmured gratefully, “because you know how much I love seeing you, and the pony is so very old one can’t take him out often—especially with the bridge at the very furthest end of the village, as it is—so exceedingly inconvenient. It used to make poor dear Fergus so angry, but, of course, one knows perfectly well that this is only one house, whereas a whole village is a whole village—and was here first, besides.”
“You ought to have a ferry.”
“My dear, I never go down to the edge of the river without thinking of St. Christopher—you know what I mean. It wasn’t a ferry, of course, but it was all the same thing in the end—only of course so much better than a regular ferry. Not that I mean it would do nowadays, or for everybody—— My dear, what are you laughing at? Have I said something dreadfully profane? I am so terribly apt to, quite without meaning it, and Ludovic always laughs at me.”
Mrs. Tregaskis laughed too, with kindly superiority.
“I don’t think you’re in any imminent danger of serious profanity, Sybil, and I’m sure Ludovic doesn’t. Great cheek of me to call him Ludovic, isn’t it? and I certainly shouldn’t dare do it to his face—but I always think of you both as sort of relations, you know.”
The observation was more in the nature of a small feeler than an accurate statement of fact, and Bertha watched for its effect narrowly.
“So nice of you, dear,” said Lady Argent absently, without a trace of meaning in her voice or manner; “and you know I never had any sisters or brothers, so Ludovic has never had an aunt. At least, dear Fergus had one sister, but she was older than he was, a good deal, and so very Scotch. Not that I mean for a moment that her being Scotch would prevent her from being an aunt as well—in fact, I believe the Scotch think more about relationships than we do. Blood is thicker than water and all that, you know, dear, and kith and kin, whatever that may mean, which I always think sounds so very Scotch—but she really wasn’t at all like an aunt to Ludovic. Just called him ‘my brother’s child,’ you know, and sent him a little book from time to time. Very Calvinistic,” and Lady Argent, shaking her head, “and I always burnt them, even in those days, though he was far too young to read, poor darling. In fact she died before he was five years old.”
“Well, I’m only too delighted to do aunt by proxy,” said Bertha good-humouredly. “I’ve been ‘auntie’ to a good many young people in my time, though the rising generation generally prefers ‘Cousin Bertie.’ I remember ages ago asking those two poor mites, Rosamund and Francie, what they’d like to call me. D’you remember my bringing them over here to say good-bye to you, Sybil?”