He is a philosopher—a searcher after truth—a solitary and silent worker in his old ancestral home.
To him the wonders revealed by scientific research have been a solace and a comfort in the hours of his affliction.
He has pursued his studies with unwearying industry; has never relaxed, but has worked as hard—and, indeed, harder, perhaps—than many men whose means of existence depended upon their own exertions.
There is good reason for this: the recluse at Broxbridge needed some occupation to drive away the miserable thoughts which at times took possession of him.
Without some such employment his life would have been one long sorrow.
He had made chemistry his study, he had also dipped deeply into the science of astrology, and when wearied of these he followed up his train of observations in astronomy.
At the top of his palatial residence he had erected an observatory.
This was furnished with a large telescope, which was said to be the finest in the country. He had always had a taste for scientific pursuits; in the later years of his life it was a passion with him.
He had little else to occupy his thoughts, for he had long since withdrawn himself from society, and with the exception of a few choice friends he did not much care about mixing with what is called the fashionable world.
Nevertheless he was not altogether a recluse: with those who knew him best he was the same genial, courtly, high-bred gentleman, whose presence was deemed an ornament in any fashionable or aristocratic coterie.