But a deep shadow had fallen on the house of Ethalwood—a shadow which no ray of sunlight dispelled.
For an hour or so the master of Broxbridge remained in his studio, working out some difficult problem in chemistry. Presently he arose, passed out of his laboratory, and made his way to the observatory.
To reach this he had to pass through the picture gallery, on the walls of which were ranged in chronological order portraits of his dead ancestors.
He seldom passed through the picture gallery without taking a glance at the long line of portraits, the very contemplation of which seemed to take him back to brighter and more glorious days.
He was proud of his ancestors, many of whom had been identified with the history of the country.
A miserable sense of depression and loneliness came over him as he contemplated the time-honoured works of art. He thought some of his race looked reprovingly on him out of their dingy frames.
At his death there would be an end to the unbroken line of the Ethalwoods. He had no son to inherit the title and estates, which would go to a distant relative, whom he held in utter aborrhence. This thought was perfect agony to him.
He turned abruptly away and made for the observatory, and strove to drown his sorrow in the depths of science.
In a short time, however, he again sought the laboratory. As he arrived at the door of the picture gallery he was startled by a loud noise, a sort of clatter and crash—so it seemed to him—which reverberated through the whole apartment.
He hastened forward, and beheld a cloud of dust.