Wife in Name Only by Charlotte Mary Brame (top 10 motivational books .txt) π
Excerpt from the book:
Read free book Β«Wife in Name Only by Charlotte Mary Brame (top 10 motivational books .txt) πΒ» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
Download in Format:
- Author: Charlotte Mary Brame
Read book online Β«Wife in Name Only by Charlotte Mary Brame (top 10 motivational books .txt) πΒ». Author - Charlotte Mary Brame
with smiling lips, there was no warmth of love in his tone.
The day was very warm--the sun had in it all the heat of June. When they reached Verdun House, Philippa said:
"You will come in for a short time, Norman? You look warm and tired. Williams--the butler--is famous for his claret-cup."
He murmured something about being not fatigued, but disinclined for conversation.
"You will not see any one," she said; "you shall come to my own particular little room, where no one dares enter, and we will have a quiet conversation there."
It seemed quite useless to resist her. She had a true siren power of fascination. The next minute saw him seated in the cool, shady _boudoir_, where the mellow light came in, rose-filtered through the silken blinds, and the perfumed air was sweet. Lady Peters, full of solicitude, was there, with the iced claret cup, thinking he was tired and-warm. It was so like home that he could not help feeling happy.
Presently Lady Peters retired for a few minutes, and in came Philippa. She had changed her riding-costume for a white silk _nΓ©gligΓ©_ that fell round her in loose, graceful folds. She wore no flowers, jewels, or ribbons, but the dark masses of her hair were unfastened, and hung round the white neck; there was a warm, bright flush on her face, with the least touch of languor in her manner. She threw herself back in her lounging chair, saying, with a dreamy smile:
"You see that I make no stranger of you, Norman."
From beneath the white silken folds peeped a tiny embroidered slipper; a jeweled fan lay near her, and with it she gently stirred the perfumed air. He watched her with admiring eyes.
"You look like a picture that I have seen, Philippa," he said.
"What picture?" she asked, with a smile.
"I cannot tell you, but I am quite sure I have seen one like you. What picture would you care to resemble?"
A sudden gleam of light came into her dark eyes.
"The one underneath which you would write 'My Queen,'" she said, hurriedly.
He did not understand.
"I think every one with an eye to beauty would call you 'queen,'" he observed, lightly. The graver meaning of her speech had quite escaped him.
Then Lady Peters returned, and the conversation changed.
"We are going to hear an _opΓ©ra-bouffe_ to-night," said Philippa, when Lord Arleigh was leaving. "Will you come and be our escort?"
"You will have a box filled with noisy chatterers the whole night," he remarked, laughingly.
"They shall all make room for you, Norman, if you will come," she said. "It is 'La Grande Duchesse,' with the far-famed Madame Schneider as her Grace of GΓ©rolstein."
"I have not heard it yet," returned Lord Arleigh. "I cannot say that I have any great admiration for that school of music, but, if you wish it, I will go, Philippa.
"It will increase my enjoyment a hundredfold," she said, gently, "if you go."
"How can I refuse when you say that? I will be here punctually," he promised; and again the thought crossed his mind how true she was to her old friends--how indifferent to new ones!
On that evening Philippa changed her customery style of dress--it was no longer the favorite amber, so rich in hue and in texture, but white, gleaming silk, relieved by dashes of crimson. A more artistic or beautiful dress could not have been designed. She wore crimson roses in her dark hair, and a cluster of crimson roses on her white breast. Her bouquet was of the same odorous flowers. In the theater Lord Arleigh noticed that Philippa attracted more attention than any one else, even though the house was crowded; he saw opera-glasses turned constantly toward her beautiful face.
Miss L'Estrange kept her word, saying but little to those who would fain have engrossed her whole attention--that was given, to Lord Arleigh. She watched his face keenly throughout the performance. He did not evince any great interest in it.
"You do not care for 'La Grande Duchesse?'" she said.
"No--frankly, I do not," he replied.
"Tell me why," said Philippa.
"Can you ask me to do so, Philippa?" he returned, surprised; and then he added, "I will tell you. First of all, despite the taking music, it is a performance to which I should not care to bring my wife and sister."
"Tell me why?" she said, again.
"It lowers my idea of womanhood. I could not forgive the woman, let her be duchess or peasant, who could show any man such great love, who could lay herself out so deliberately to win a man."
She looked at him gravely. He continued:
"Beauty is very charming, I grant--as are grace and talent; but the chief charm to me of a woman is her modesty. Do you not agree with me, Philippa?"
"Yes," she replied, "most certainly I do; but, Norman, you are hard upon us. Suppose that, woman loves a man ever so truly--she must not make any sign?"
"Any sign she might make would most certainly, in my opinion, lessen her greatest charm," he said.
"But," she persisted, "do you not think that is rather hard? Why must a woman never evince a preference for the man she loves?"
"Woman should be wooed--never be wooer," said Lord Arleigh.
"Again I say you are hard, Norman. According to you, a woman is to break her heart in silence and sorrow for a man, rather than give him the least idea that she cares for him."
"I should say there is a happy medium between the Duchess of GΓ©rolstein and a broken heart. Neither men nor women can help their peculiar disposition, but in my opinion a man never more esteems a woman than when he sees she wants to win his love."
He spoke with such perfect freedom from all consciousness that she knew the words could not be intended for her; nevertheless she had learned a lesson from them.
"I am like yourself, Norman," she said; "I do not care for the play at all; we will go home," and they left the house before the Grand Duchess had played her part.
Chapter IX.
Philippa L'Estrange thought long and earnestly over her last conversation with Lord Arleigh. She had always loved him; but the chances are that, if he had been devoted to her on his return, if he had wooed her as others did, she would have been less _empressΓ©e_. As it was, he was the only man she had not conquered, the only one who resisted her, on whom her fascinations fell without producing a magical effect. She could not say she had conquered her world while he was unsubdued. Yet how was it? She asked herself that question a hundred times each day. She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but to smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to make the most trifling advance, and she could do what she would. The Duke of Mornton had twice repeated his offer of marriage--she had refused him. The Marquis of Langland, the great match of the day, had made her an offer, which she had declined. The Italian Prince Cetti would have given his possessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but she had refused to go. No woman in England had had better offers of marriage; but she had refused them all. How was it that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof?
Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she could not win him? For the first time she became solicitous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled. If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced, or showed attention to any lady, she would critically examine her claim to interest, whether she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful. But Philippa detected another thing--if Lord Arleigh did not love her, it was at least certain that he loved no one else.
The whole world was spoiled for her because she had not this man's love. She desired it. Her beauty, her wealth, her talents, her grace, were all as nothing, because with them she could not win him. Then, again, she asked herself, could it be that she could not win him? What had men told her? That her beauty was irresistible. It might be that he did care for her, that he intended to carry out his mother's favorite scheme, but that he was in no hurry, that he wanted her and himself to see plenty of life first. It was easier, after all, to believe that than to think that she had completely failed to win him. She would be quite satisfied if it were so, although it was certainly not flattering to her that he should be willing to wait so long; but, if he would only speak--if he would only say the few words that would set her mind quite at ease--she would be content.
Why did he not love her? She was fair, young, endowed with great gifts; she had wealth, position; she had the claim upon him that his mother and hers had wished the alliance. Why did she fail? why did he not love her? It seemed to her that she was the one person in all the world to whom he would naturally turn--that, above all others, he would select her for his wife; yet he did not evince the least idea of so doing. Why was it?
Twice that night when he had so frankly told her his ideas about women, she had been most careful, most reserved.
"If he likes reserve and indifference," she said to herself, "he shall have plenty of it." Yet it was at the same time so mixed with kindness, with thoughtful consideration for him, that the wonder was he did not succumb. "I must find out," she said to herself, "whether he does really care for me." How to do so she did not quite know--but woman's wits are proverbially keen.
The more she saw of him the better she liked him--his single-mindedness, his chivalry, his faith in women and his respect for them, were greater than she had seen in any other, and she loved him for these qualities. The more she contrasted him with others, the greater, deeper, and wider grew her love. It must be that in time he should care for her.
The Duchess of Aytoun gave a grand ball, to which, as belle of the season, Philippa was invited.
"Shall you go?" she asked of Lord Arleigh.
"I have hardly decided," he replied.
"Do go, Norman; I like waltzing, but I do not care to waltz with every one. Do go, that I may dance with you."
"You do not mind waltzing with me, then?" he said.
The glance she gave him was answer sufficient. He could not kelp feeling flattered.
"I shall be there, Philippa," he said; and then she promised herself on that evening she would try to discover what his sentiments were with regard to her.
She took great pains with her toilet; she did not wish to startle, but to attract--and the two things were very different. Her dress looked brilliant, being of a silvery texture; the trimming was composed of small fern-leaves; a _parure_ of fine diamonds crowned her head.
The effect of the
The day was very warm--the sun had in it all the heat of June. When they reached Verdun House, Philippa said:
"You will come in for a short time, Norman? You look warm and tired. Williams--the butler--is famous for his claret-cup."
He murmured something about being not fatigued, but disinclined for conversation.
"You will not see any one," she said; "you shall come to my own particular little room, where no one dares enter, and we will have a quiet conversation there."
It seemed quite useless to resist her. She had a true siren power of fascination. The next minute saw him seated in the cool, shady _boudoir_, where the mellow light came in, rose-filtered through the silken blinds, and the perfumed air was sweet. Lady Peters, full of solicitude, was there, with the iced claret cup, thinking he was tired and-warm. It was so like home that he could not help feeling happy.
Presently Lady Peters retired for a few minutes, and in came Philippa. She had changed her riding-costume for a white silk _nΓ©gligΓ©_ that fell round her in loose, graceful folds. She wore no flowers, jewels, or ribbons, but the dark masses of her hair were unfastened, and hung round the white neck; there was a warm, bright flush on her face, with the least touch of languor in her manner. She threw herself back in her lounging chair, saying, with a dreamy smile:
"You see that I make no stranger of you, Norman."
From beneath the white silken folds peeped a tiny embroidered slipper; a jeweled fan lay near her, and with it she gently stirred the perfumed air. He watched her with admiring eyes.
"You look like a picture that I have seen, Philippa," he said.
"What picture?" she asked, with a smile.
"I cannot tell you, but I am quite sure I have seen one like you. What picture would you care to resemble?"
A sudden gleam of light came into her dark eyes.
"The one underneath which you would write 'My Queen,'" she said, hurriedly.
He did not understand.
"I think every one with an eye to beauty would call you 'queen,'" he observed, lightly. The graver meaning of her speech had quite escaped him.
Then Lady Peters returned, and the conversation changed.
"We are going to hear an _opΓ©ra-bouffe_ to-night," said Philippa, when Lord Arleigh was leaving. "Will you come and be our escort?"
"You will have a box filled with noisy chatterers the whole night," he remarked, laughingly.
"They shall all make room for you, Norman, if you will come," she said. "It is 'La Grande Duchesse,' with the far-famed Madame Schneider as her Grace of GΓ©rolstein."
"I have not heard it yet," returned Lord Arleigh. "I cannot say that I have any great admiration for that school of music, but, if you wish it, I will go, Philippa.
"It will increase my enjoyment a hundredfold," she said, gently, "if you go."
"How can I refuse when you say that? I will be here punctually," he promised; and again the thought crossed his mind how true she was to her old friends--how indifferent to new ones!
On that evening Philippa changed her customery style of dress--it was no longer the favorite amber, so rich in hue and in texture, but white, gleaming silk, relieved by dashes of crimson. A more artistic or beautiful dress could not have been designed. She wore crimson roses in her dark hair, and a cluster of crimson roses on her white breast. Her bouquet was of the same odorous flowers. In the theater Lord Arleigh noticed that Philippa attracted more attention than any one else, even though the house was crowded; he saw opera-glasses turned constantly toward her beautiful face.
Miss L'Estrange kept her word, saying but little to those who would fain have engrossed her whole attention--that was given, to Lord Arleigh. She watched his face keenly throughout the performance. He did not evince any great interest in it.
"You do not care for 'La Grande Duchesse?'" she said.
"No--frankly, I do not," he replied.
"Tell me why," said Philippa.
"Can you ask me to do so, Philippa?" he returned, surprised; and then he added, "I will tell you. First of all, despite the taking music, it is a performance to which I should not care to bring my wife and sister."
"Tell me why?" she said, again.
"It lowers my idea of womanhood. I could not forgive the woman, let her be duchess or peasant, who could show any man such great love, who could lay herself out so deliberately to win a man."
She looked at him gravely. He continued:
"Beauty is very charming, I grant--as are grace and talent; but the chief charm to me of a woman is her modesty. Do you not agree with me, Philippa?"
"Yes," she replied, "most certainly I do; but, Norman, you are hard upon us. Suppose that, woman loves a man ever so truly--she must not make any sign?"
"Any sign she might make would most certainly, in my opinion, lessen her greatest charm," he said.
"But," she persisted, "do you not think that is rather hard? Why must a woman never evince a preference for the man she loves?"
"Woman should be wooed--never be wooer," said Lord Arleigh.
"Again I say you are hard, Norman. According to you, a woman is to break her heart in silence and sorrow for a man, rather than give him the least idea that she cares for him."
"I should say there is a happy medium between the Duchess of GΓ©rolstein and a broken heart. Neither men nor women can help their peculiar disposition, but in my opinion a man never more esteems a woman than when he sees she wants to win his love."
He spoke with such perfect freedom from all consciousness that she knew the words could not be intended for her; nevertheless she had learned a lesson from them.
"I am like yourself, Norman," she said; "I do not care for the play at all; we will go home," and they left the house before the Grand Duchess had played her part.
Chapter IX.
Philippa L'Estrange thought long and earnestly over her last conversation with Lord Arleigh. She had always loved him; but the chances are that, if he had been devoted to her on his return, if he had wooed her as others did, she would have been less _empressΓ©e_. As it was, he was the only man she had not conquered, the only one who resisted her, on whom her fascinations fell without producing a magical effect. She could not say she had conquered her world while he was unsubdued. Yet how was it? She asked herself that question a hundred times each day. She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but to smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to make the most trifling advance, and she could do what she would. The Duke of Mornton had twice repeated his offer of marriage--she had refused him. The Marquis of Langland, the great match of the day, had made her an offer, which she had declined. The Italian Prince Cetti would have given his possessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but she had refused to go. No woman in England had had better offers of marriage; but she had refused them all. How was it that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof?
Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she could not win him? For the first time she became solicitous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled. If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced, or showed attention to any lady, she would critically examine her claim to interest, whether she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful. But Philippa detected another thing--if Lord Arleigh did not love her, it was at least certain that he loved no one else.
The whole world was spoiled for her because she had not this man's love. She desired it. Her beauty, her wealth, her talents, her grace, were all as nothing, because with them she could not win him. Then, again, she asked herself, could it be that she could not win him? What had men told her? That her beauty was irresistible. It might be that he did care for her, that he intended to carry out his mother's favorite scheme, but that he was in no hurry, that he wanted her and himself to see plenty of life first. It was easier, after all, to believe that than to think that she had completely failed to win him. She would be quite satisfied if it were so, although it was certainly not flattering to her that he should be willing to wait so long; but, if he would only speak--if he would only say the few words that would set her mind quite at ease--she would be content.
Why did he not love her? She was fair, young, endowed with great gifts; she had wealth, position; she had the claim upon him that his mother and hers had wished the alliance. Why did she fail? why did he not love her? It seemed to her that she was the one person in all the world to whom he would naturally turn--that, above all others, he would select her for his wife; yet he did not evince the least idea of so doing. Why was it?
Twice that night when he had so frankly told her his ideas about women, she had been most careful, most reserved.
"If he likes reserve and indifference," she said to herself, "he shall have plenty of it." Yet it was at the same time so mixed with kindness, with thoughtful consideration for him, that the wonder was he did not succumb. "I must find out," she said to herself, "whether he does really care for me." How to do so she did not quite know--but woman's wits are proverbially keen.
The more she saw of him the better she liked him--his single-mindedness, his chivalry, his faith in women and his respect for them, were greater than she had seen in any other, and she loved him for these qualities. The more she contrasted him with others, the greater, deeper, and wider grew her love. It must be that in time he should care for her.
The Duchess of Aytoun gave a grand ball, to which, as belle of the season, Philippa was invited.
"Shall you go?" she asked of Lord Arleigh.
"I have hardly decided," he replied.
"Do go, Norman; I like waltzing, but I do not care to waltz with every one. Do go, that I may dance with you."
"You do not mind waltzing with me, then?" he said.
The glance she gave him was answer sufficient. He could not kelp feeling flattered.
"I shall be there, Philippa," he said; and then she promised herself on that evening she would try to discover what his sentiments were with regard to her.
She took great pains with her toilet; she did not wish to startle, but to attract--and the two things were very different. Her dress looked brilliant, being of a silvery texture; the trimming was composed of small fern-leaves; a _parure_ of fine diamonds crowned her head.
The effect of the
Free e-book: Β«Wife in Name Only by Charlotte Mary Brame (top 10 motivational books .txt) πΒ» - read online now on website american library books (americanlibrarybooks.com)
Add a comment
Comments (0)