IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
The Abbots of Chewton-Abbot, Gloucestershire, were county people, and, moreover, had always occupied that coveted position. They dreaded not the researches of the officious antiquary who pokes about in pedigrees, and finds that, three or four generations ago, the founders of certain families acquired their wealth by trade. They at least were independent of money-earning. The fact that Chewton began to be known as Chewton-Abbot so far back as the fifteenth century, showed they were no upstarts. Indeed, if not of the very first rank—that rank from which knights of the shire are chosen—the Abbots, from the antiquity of their family, and from the centuries that family had owned the same estates, were entitled to dispute the question of precedence with all save a few very great magnates. They were undoubtedly people of importance. The reigning Abbot, it need scarcely be said, was always a county magistrate, and at some period of his life certain to serve as sheriff. But for generations the family had occupied exactly the same position, and exercised exactly the same amount of influence in the land. The Abbots seemed neither to rise nor fall. If they added nothing to their estates, they alienated nothing. If they gave no great statesmen, warriors, or geniuses to the world, they produced, sparingly, highly respectable members of society, who lived upon the family acres and spent their revenues in a becoming manner.
The estates were unentailed; but as, so far, no Abbot had incurred his father’s displeasure, the line of descent from father to eldest son had been unbroken, and appeared likely to continue so. True, it was whispered, years ago, that the custom was nearly changed, when Mr William Abbot, the present owner of the estate, was leading a life in London very different from the respectable traditions of the family. But the reports were not authenticated; and as, soon after his father’s death, he married a member of an equally old, equally respectable, and equally proud family, all such ill-natured gossip died a natural death; and at the time this tale opens, William Abbot was leading the same quiet life his ancestors had led before him.
It was one of the cherished Abbot traditions that the family was not prolific. So long as the race was kept from disappearing, they were contented. In this respect the present head of the family showed himself a true Abbot. He had but one son, a young man who had just taken a fair degree at Oxford, and who was now staying at Chewton Hall, before departing on a round of polite travel, which, according to old-world precedent, his parents considered necessary to crown the educational edifice.
Mr and Mrs Abbot were in the breakfast-room at Chewton Hall. Mr Abbot was alone at the table, lazily discussing his breakfast. His wife and son, who were early risers, had taken that meal nearly an hour before. The young man being away on some outdoor pursuit, the husband and wife had the room to themselves. Mr Abbot had just poured out his second cup of tea, and, according to his usual custom, commenced breaking the seals of the letters which lay beside his plate. His wife drew near to him.
‘I am afraid that infatuated boy has in some way entangled himself with the young woman I told you of,’ she said.
‘What young woman?’ asked Mr Abbot, laying down his letters.
‘I told you last week he was always riding into Bristol—so often, that I felt sure there was some attraction there.’
‘You did, I remember. But I took little notice of it. Boys will be boys, you know.’
‘Yes; but it is time we interfered. I found him this morning kissing a photograph and holding a lock of hair in his hand. I taxed him with his folly.’