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THE ANKARDYNE PEW

THE following narrative of the occurrences that took place at Ankardyne House in February 1890, is made up chiefly of extracts from letters written by my friend, the Rev. Thomas Prendergast, to his wife, immediately before taking up residence at the vicarage, together with transcripts from the diary which I kept at the time. The names throughout are, of course, fictitious.

February 9th. I am sorry that I had no opportunity yesterday of getting over to the vicarage, so your questions-I have not lost the list-must remain unanswered. It is almost a quarter of a mile away from the church, in the village. You see, the church, unfortunately, is in the grounds of the park, and there is a flagged passage, cold and horribly draughty, that leads from Ankardyne House to the great loose box of the Ankardyne pew. The squires in the old days could come in late and go out early, or even stay away altogether, without any one being the wiser. The whole situation of the church is bad and typically English -the House of God in the squire's pocket. Why should he have right of secret access? I haven't had time to examine the interior-early eighteenth-century, I should guess-but as we drove up last evening in the dusk, the tall gloomy fagade of Ankardyne House, with the elegant little church-a Wren's nest -adjoining it, made me think of a wicked uncle, setting off for a walk in the woods with one of the babes. The picture is really rather apt, as you will agree, when you see the place. It's partly a question of the height of the two bu::dings, partly a question of the shape of the windows, those of the one square, deep-set, and grim; of the other round-the raised eyebrows of startled innocence.
We were quite wrong about Miss Ankardyne. She is a charm-` ing little lady, not a trace of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and is really looking forward to having you as her nearest neighbour.