He rose early, rode for a couple of hours upon his chestnut horse
Dragon, and then breakfasted. After breakfast he sat in his luxurious
sitting-room, sometimes reading, sometimes writing, sometimes sitting
for hours together brooding silently over the low embers in the roomy
fireplace. At six o'clock he dined, still keeping to his own room--for
he was not well enough to dine with his daughter, he said: and he sat
alone late into the night, drinking heavily, according to the report
current in the servants' hall.
He was respected and he was feared in his household: but he was not
liked. His silent and reserved manner had a gloomy influence upon the
servants who came in contact with him: and they compared him very
disadvantageously with his predecessor, Percival Dunbar; the genial,
kind, old master, who had always had a cheerful, friendly word for every
one of his dependants: from the stately housekeeper in rustling silken
robes, to the smallest boy employed in the stables.
No, the new master of the abbey was not liked. Day after day he lived
secluded and alone. At first, his daughter had broken in upon his
solitude, and, with bright, caressing ways, had tried to win him from
his loneliness: but she found that all her efforts to do this were worse
than useless: they were even disagreeable to her father: and, by
degrees, her light footstep was heard less and less often in that lonely
wing of the house where Henry Dunbar had taken up his abode.
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