Charlotte Mary Brame (usually known as Charlotte M. Brame; appeared under pseudonyms in America, notably Bertha M. Clay, and was sometimes identified by the name of her most famous novel, Dora Thorne) (1 November 1836 - 25 November 1884) was an English novelist. fter attending convent schools in Bristol and Preston and a finishing school in Paris, she worked as a governess before marrying Phillip Edward Brame (1839-1886), a London-based jeweller, on 7 January 1863. Since Brame was a poor businessman and a drunkard, Charlotte found herself forced to support the family with her writing. Her books were very successful with the public, but her earnings were severely diminished by piracy, particularly in the United States.
Charlotte Mary Brame (usually known as Charlotte M. Brame, last name sometimes mistakenly given as Braeme; appeared under pseudonyms in America, notably Bertha M. Clay, and was sometimes identified by the name of her most famous novel, Dora Thorne) (1 November 1836 - 25 November 1884) was an English novelist. She was born in Hinckley, Leicestershire, to Benjamin and Charlotte Agnes Law, devout Roman Catholics. After attending convent schools in Bristol and Preston and a finishing school in Paris, she worked as a governess before marrying Phillip Edward Brame (1839-1886), a London-based jeweller, on 7 January 1863.
"Most fathers would refuse to hear all this nonsense, Ronald," he said, gently. "I listen, and try to convince you by reasonable arguments that the step you seem bent upon taking is one that will entail nothing but misery. I have said no angry word to you, nor shall I do so. I tell you simply it can not be. Dora Thorne, my lodge keeper's daughter, is no fitting wife for my son, the heir of Earlescourt. Come with me, Ronald; I will show you further what I mean." They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so dissimilar in mind. They had been walking up and down the broad terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt. The park and pleasure grounds, with flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around them. The song of hundreds of birds trilled through the sweet summer air, the water of many fountains rippled musically, rare flowers charmed the eye and sent forth sweet perfume; but neither song of birds nor fragrance of flowersÑneither sunshine nor musicÑbrought any brightness to the grave faces of the father and son. With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the hall. They passed through a long suite of magnificent apartments, up the broad marble staircase, through long corridors, until they reached the picture gallery, one of the finest in England. Nearly every great master was represented there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of Earlescourt had all loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the treasures of that wonderful gallery. One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits of the family. Grim old warriors and fair ladies hung side by side; faces of marvelous beauty, bearing the signs of noble descent, shone out clearly from their gilded frames. "Look, Ronald," Lord Earle said, laying one hand upon his shoulder, "you stand before your ancestors now. Yours is a grand old race. England knows and honors it. Look at these pictured faces of the wives our fathers chose. There is Lady Sybella Earle; when one of Cromwell's soldiers drew his dagger to slay her husband, the truest friend King Charles ever had, she flung herself before him, and received the blow in his stead. She died, and he livedÑnoble and beautiful, is she not? Now look at the Lacy AliciaÑthis fair patrician lady smiling by the side of her grim lord; she, at the risk of her life, helped him to fly from prison, where he lay condemned to death for some great political wrong. She saved him, and for her sake he received pardon. Here is the Lady HelenaÑshe is not beautiful, but look at the intellect, the queenly brow, the soul-lit eyes! She, I need not tell you, was a poetess. Wherever the English language was spoken, her verses were readÑmen were nobler and better for reading them. The ladies of our race were such that brave men may be proud of them. Is it not so, Ronald?"Ê
Excerpt from Dora Thorne I shall never interfere in your politics, Ronald, said Lord Earle, laughing quietly. Before you are twenty one you will have gone through many stages of that fever. Youth is almost invariably liberal, age conservative. Adopt what line of politics you will, but do not bring theory into practice in this instance. I should consider myself a hero, continued the young man, if I could be the first to break through the tram mels of custom and the absurd laws of caste. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
"The consequences of folly seldom end with its originator," said Lord Earle to his son. "Rely upon it, Ronald, if you were to take this most foolish and unadvisable step, you would bring misery upon yourself and every one connected with you. Listen to reason." "There is no reason in prejudice," replied the young man haughtily. "You can not bring forward one valid reason against my marriage." Despite his annoyance, a smile broke over Lord Earle's grave face. "I can bring a thousand reasons, if necessary," he replied. "I grant everything you say. Dora Thorne is very pretty; but remember, she is quite a rustic and unformed beauty—and I almost doubt whether she can read or spell properly. She is modest and good, I grant, and I never heard one syllable against her. Ronald, let me appeal to your better judgment—are a moderate amount of rustic prettiness and shy modesty sufficient qualifications for your wife, who will have to take your mother's place?" "They are quite sufficient to satisfy me," replied the young man. "You have others to consider," said Lord Earle, quickly. "I love her," interrupted his son; and again his father smiled. "We know what it means," he said, "when boys of nineteen talk about love. Believe me, Ronald, if I were to consent to your request, you would be the first in after years to reproach me for weak compliance with your youthful folly." "You would not call it folly," retorted Ronald, his face flushing hotly, "if Dora were an heiress, or the daughter of some—" "Spare me a long discourse," again interrupted Lord Earle. "You are quite right; if the young girl in question belonged to your own station, or even if she were near it, that would be quite a different matter. I am not annoyed that you have, as you think, fallen in love, or that you wish to marry, although you are young. I am annoyed that you should dream of wishing to marry a simple rustic, the daughter of my lodge keeper. It is so supremely ridiculous that I can hardly treat the matter seriously." "It is serious enough for me," returned his son with a long, deep sigh. "If I do not marry Dora Thorne, I shall never marry at all." "Better that than a mesalliance," said Lord Earle, shortly.
