After luncheon we visit the little ones in their rooms high up in the sunlight, and very happy, fine children they appear to be. Round-eyed little Lady Mary did the honours and presented her brother, who at the time was making vain attempts to stand on his head in a corner, while the new baby dreamed his days away in a crib by the fire. I am told that the present Duke dying without an heir the estate would pass to a Catholic owner, much to the distaste of the tenants here, who are mostly Protestants, and that when little Lord Mandeville was born the rejoicings were immense,—every man as he heard it having a pull at the church bell. Now there are two sons and hence little chance of the dreaded misfortune,—though it often happened during the Boer war that many estates in the empire fell to those so distant that no hope had been entertained for an instant of their so passing. Let us trust it will not occur here, for these are fine children.
Passing downward, we spend some hours in wandering over the park, pausing at last by the grave of the late Duke in the little churchyard. I did not notice the graves of any other members of the family. I believe former dukes are interred at Kimbolton, the family seat in England. The church holds some very beautiful windows erected by the present Duchess to the memory of her mother, Helena Zimmerman. As we return to the castle the voices of the children have roused all the echoes of the courtyard into wild replies and now the sunlight streams downward as though in thorough approval.
Tea-time, that most pleasant hour of the day, finds me in the chapel listening to the soft tones of the organ. My hand quite haphazard picks up a volume lying near me whose title at once chains my attention and in view of the base manner in which the author afterward sold his talents to her enemies and slandered his Queen it may be well to quote what he says of that Queen in this preface:
"To the Most Illustrious Mary Queen of Scots.
[An Epigram of George Buchanan.]"Madam:
"Who now happily holdest the sceptre of the Caledonian coast conveyed from hand to hand through a long line of innumerable ancestors, whose fortune is exceeded by thy merits, thy years by thy virtues, thy sex by thy spirit, and thy noble birth by the nobility of thy manners,
"Receive (but with candour and good nature) these poems upon which I have bestowed a Latine Dress, etc. etc. I durst not cast away this ill-born product of mine lest I should reject what thou hast been pleased to approve. What my poems could not hope for from the wit and genius of the composer perhaps they will obtain from thy good-will and approbation."[1]
Deep in thoughts of that most interesting period of Scotch history I do not even hear the dressing bell until its clangour becomes too insistent to be disregarded, and I mount to my room to dress for that most important function of the day—dinner. A bright fire makes the chamber warm and cozy so that it is difficult to resist the temptation to further reverie.
Evidently Tanderagee has been greatly improved of late years. In the building have been placed several modern bathrooms, a Turkish plunge, and an electric light plant and steam heat, so that the damp, penetrating cold and musty, mouldy smell usually so ever-present in these houses, where fortunes are so constantly spent in decorations and so little done for actual comfort, are absent. From my window I can see on the lake of the park an ancient swan named Billy, alone in all his glory and from choice and bad temper, not necessity. He has killed off all his kind and all other kinds, is in fact a degenerate bird, and when evening comes on he betakes himself with the rest of the "boys" to the village street, and loafs around all night, no dog in the place daring to molest him. I saw him outside of a public house there with a desire for strong drink expressed in his eyes. He is a rake of the worst character but you dare not tell him so. He leaves the park every night before the gates are closed and returns next morning.
There are fine drives in all directions hereabouts, and the roads being good we have many a rush in the motor-cars,—one to an old ruin where the devil is supposed to leave the impress of his foot upon a plank in the floor each night. I doubt if to-day even the devil could reach the plank through the accumulation of dirt thereon.