In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science,
an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not
long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual
affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his
laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance
from the furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers,
and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days,
when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other
kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of
miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love
of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the
imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their
congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries
believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to
another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of
creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not
whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate
control over nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly
to scientific studies ever to be weakened from them by any second
passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the
two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of
science and uniting the strength of the latter to his own.
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