A Secret of the Sea: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)
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A Secret of the Sea: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)
Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)
English fiction -- 19th century
that he had so lost it. He made believe, even to himself, that it was
still as safely in his possession as ever it had been. But the acute
consciousness of its loss which came over him at odd times--only to be
at once thrust into the background with a firm hand--by no means
tended to mitigate the intensity of his determination to be avenged,
in one form or another, on the woman to whom he owed this strange new
feeling, which not seldom made him shrink within himself, as though he
were in reality little better than a whipped cur.
Stammars, the residence of Sir Thomas Dudgeon, was, as a family
mansion, still quite in its infancy, being something under twenty
years old. Sir Thomas had stuck to the old house as long as it was
safe for him to do so; but when, during a night of terrible storm, a
great part of it was blown about his ears, he began to see that it
would not be advisable to delay his removal much longer. So, on a
windy knoll about half a mile from the old house, the new mansion was
built. It was built with all modern conveniences and appliances. The
rooms were large and lofty, and had huge plate-glass windows with
venetian blinds. Round about were gardens, and shrubberies, and
hothouses, with a view beyond over miles of pleasant Hertfordshire
scenery. Everybody expressed themselves as being enchanted with the
house, and yet everybody felt that it lacked one essential. There was
no homelike comfort about it. Whether it was that the rooms were too
big and the fire-places too few; whether it was that the house was
built so high above the surrounding country as to be exposed to every
wind that blew, and so had never been able to get itself warmed
through; or from whatever other cause it might arise, certain it is
that Stammars never seemed otherwise than cold and comfortless. Each
room in the house seemed to have its own particular draught, while the
wind seemed to be for ever playing at hide-and-seek up and down the
great wide corridors and staircases, banging every now and then a
bedroom door, or creeping with snake-like motion under any piece of
carpet that had not been firmly nailed down.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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