TOWNSEND'S PARISIAN COSTUMES. Fig. 2.(49). - Promenade Toilette, made with English serge and embossed velvet; the cuirasse body is quite round: the overskirt is made of two points, crossing each other, trimmed by a band of velvet, and falling over a plissé petticoat. Quantities required: 6 yds. velvet; 8 yds. serge; 18 buttons. The serge is sold at the Trois Quartiers, Price 2s 5d. a yard. Fig. 3.-(50). - Handkerchief Toilette of darkcolored Madras. Round jacket trimmed in front by folds and a collar. The skirt is made with two points, shawl fashion, well draped behind over a plissé petticoat. It will take 10 squares; 16 buttons. Sold at the Trois Quartiers, Price £1 12s. 6d. Fig. 4.-(51). - Madras Costume; the body is gathered in a band, on which a basque is sewn: the back is like a Norfolk jacket. The overskirt is formed of two draperies crossing in front, and well looped at back over a plissé petticoat. Will require 10 squares; 16 buttons. Sold by the Trois Quartiers, Price £1 12s. 6d. PLATE THE EIGHΤΗ. These elegant Costumes are designed for us by the Grands Magazins St. Joseph, 117-119, Rue Montmartre, and 2, Rue Joquelet, Paris. Fig. 1.-(52). -Home Toilette of Navy-blue satin, embroidered with red and light-blue floss silk. This dress is cut en princesse, ornamented in front by five deep folds, and an embroidered square tablier: the back is very elegant. Quantities required: 18 yds. satin; 18 buttons. Fig. 2.-(53). - The Cora Black Velvet Costume, trimmed with passementerie; the body is made in redingote style, opened in front, and falling deeper at back; the overskirt is elegantly draped with ribbon on a long plissé underskirt. It will take 16 yds. velvet; 2 yds. passementerie; 24 buttons; 3 yds. ribbon. Fig. 3.-(54).-Dinner Dress of grey Japanese silk : the body is pointed in front, and terminates in wide bows and loops; the front of skirt is trimmed diagonally with folds, edged with fringe. The underskirt is made in wide pleats, ornamented with passementerie; the train is elegant and rich. Will require 14 yds. Japanese silk; 18 buttons; 11⁄2 yds. fringe; 7 yds. passementerie. TRUE BEAUTY. -True beauty lies not altogether in regularity of feature, or fairness of complexion, but in that expression of face which tells of a beautiful soul within. It is seldom, however, that a person possessing these latter-named attributes will have ungainly features. The eye, as part of the features of the face, is a true index of the soul within, and from that, beams either love or hate; and, in time, by constant exercising of certain faculties of mind, the other features, as well as the eye, are stamped with the mark of mind, which only a change of mind can efface. A beautiful face can be made an ugly one; an angel can be transformed into a demon by long-continued exercise of hate and revenge. PASSIONS. like wild horses, when properly trained and disciplined, are capable of being applied to the noblest purposes, but when allowed to have their own way they become dangerous in the extreme. A HARVEST OF TARES, BY G. EWART FLEMING. BOOK THE FIRST. SOWING. CHAPTER II. WIIAT SALOME HEARD. ALOME SOMERST watched the receding figure of her husband until it disappeared in the misty morning light, and then, with a choking sob, hurried into her lonely dwelling. Her child was still asleep, or Salome might have cast herself beside the cot in an agony of grief, but mother-love prevailed even over wifely sorrow, and no outburst of weeping startled the babe from its peaceful slumbers. Salome sat down by the window, and, leaning on the sill, she buried her face in her hands, and wept silently. She could hear the movements of Mrs. Jerrold in the room below as she prepared the young wife's lonely breakfast, and before long the little nurse came to summon her mistress to that meal. As Mrs. Somerset descended the stairs, the postman's knock resounded through the house, startling her, and waking baby, who was at once comforted with food by the nurse. Salome re-entered the bedroom to kiss her darling, and then went down to the parlor. A letter addressed to herself lay on the table, and Salome recognised the handwriting of the landlady of their late lodgings in London. She opened it with a little feeling of curiosity, and found that the envelope enclosed another letter addressed to her husband. She turned it round, and, to her surprise, the seal bore an inscription-"The Cosmopolitan Bank, Limited, Gresham Buildings, E. C." In that moment the first shadow of a heavy cloud fell on Salome Somerset, and, like the lightning-flash before the storm, the question darted through her mind-"Why do John's employers address a letter to him at a place he has left nearly a month?" Child-like and trusting as John Somerset's wife had hitherto being, she was by nature prone to suspicion, or, it may be, that she had a quicker appreciation of other people's motives than most women; be that as it may, an unexplained circumstance had, at all times, power to excite her curiosity, and it was, FOR FEBRUARY, 1881. "Cosmopolitan Bank, I think the reading of this letter smote Other blows followed, heavier and more Her husband had deceived her! For what cause she knew not, nor, in that Whither had he gone? Where and how Where was he now? And with whom? I have said that Salome was of a suspicious It may seem to you, my reader, an un- 5 band, the brother, or the friend, who had, to Salome rose from her seat, and paced up and "What can I do?" she murmured under her She sat down again-this time by the piano "For you and the child. I could not go A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. What was it that he had undertaken? What On the piano, still open, lay the duet they Little by little she recalled everything which Darker suspicions awoke in Salome Somer- "I think," said Salome to herself, with a She cast about in her mind for the means of finding this lady, and soon remembered the address of a house in London to which she had once written on her father's behalf, when he required information on some matter connected with the Lingford Choral Society. It was now the London season, and Miss Dysart was more likely to be in Mastodon Square than at the Glen, in Grass-shire. Salome was carried out of herself by a strong nameless instinct, and she yielded her will and judgment unquestioningly to the force of that sudden power, not once asking herself whether the step she was taking was a wise and prudent one, even if her jealous fears were true. A hot rage burned in her heart, and she longed to confront Anne Dysart, tax her with the wrong she had done, and force from her the knowledge of John Somerset's whereabouts. Oddly enough, after the idea of Miss Dysart's complicity in her husband's absence had taken possesion of her mind, Salome thought little of that husband himself. A numbed, dead feeling was in her heart concerning him, a thin covering which veiled a volcano of passion in the undisciplined heartpassion which might break out afterwards with death-dealing violence, but which was now subordinate to more intricate and jealous feelings concerning her supposed rival. Outwardly calm, Salome made her arrangements. She drank a cup of tea while she consulted Bradshaw, and found that she could easily catch a train at Liscott Station, two miles distant, which would enable her to be in London at eleven o'clock. She rang for Mrs. Jerrold, and bade that worthy woman bring her mantle and bonnet to the little parlor. "I must follow Mr. Somerset with an important letter which has come for him this morning," was her brief explanation of this hasty journey, and putting the letter with ostentatious care into her purse, she left the cottage to walk to Liscott. A hard look settled down on her face, a look that hardened and grew more defiant as she passed quickly along the dull country lane, and no soft thought redeemed the bitterness of her heart that February morning. Moreover, she had left the cottage without one fond, farewell look at her child! CHAPTER III. WHAT SALOME SAW. Quickly as she had walked Salome was only just in time to catch the train. Hastily procuring her ticket she entered the first carriage she reached, scarcely remarking whether it was occupied or not. She was afflicted or blessed-with that wonderful egotism which distinguishes human nature in its solemn seasons of sorrow: that wide-spreading sense of its own importancea dismal royalty born of the power to suffer, which makes of itself and its special anguish an object huge and important enough to blot out the rest of the world, both of animate and inanimate nature. To Salome the world seemed empty, save of herself, John Somerset and Anne Dysart. The more she dwelt upon the strangeness of her husband's conduct of the previous evening, the more fully was she persuaded that it was from Miss Dysart that she must expect an explanation of his absence. That any mistake could have occurred, that the letter could have been mis-dated, that the matter might even be explained away, never once occurred to Mrs. Somerset, and herein she did but prove true to the instincts of her nature, which at best was an undisciplined one, and prone to suspicion. With her husband by her side to explain away anything that seemed curious, she was docile, and easily contented; but left alone to face an inexplicable enigma, without his tender smiles and re-assuring words, Salome had not faith enough in him, or in anyone, to trust and be loyal against the falsest of false appearances. Ah! reader! that noble confidence, that limitless, loyal trust, is not given to us all. Let those be thankful who can rest firm and unshaken even in the most searching trial of their faith. It is a good thing and a noble, to trust our dear ones through good and evil report, and a better thing and a nobler, to declare our faith in them when they seem to be false even to ourselves, and this unshaken confidence brings its own reward. The loyal heart is blessed with rest and content, while the fearful spirit is shaken with terrible tempests of soul,-doubting, yet loving; comfortless and despairing. Salome sat at one end of the carriage, looking out on the wintry landscape as the train sped Londonwards, through bare hedgerows and bleak-looking fields. At length, however, her attention was arrested by the conversation of her companions-two young fellows, wrapped up to the throat in sealskin and Tweed. "It is lucky," said one, "that we are only expected to turn up at the breakfast. The church business is an awful bore." FOR FEBRUARY, 1881. "Where does it take place?" enquired his friend. "Oh! at St. Peter's, of course." "Well," replied the second speaker, " I think I should have liked to see how John Somerset bore the 'trying ordeal,' as they call it, at the church." "You will have plenty of time, then," replied the other; "Miss Dysart will not be too early, you may depend, though I must say she made pretty fast running in the courtship." "Oh! come!" chuckled the friend, and they both laughed at their own wit, and continued their remarks in whispers. Only one other part of their conversation was clear to Salome, who sat listening intently, her face white as death under her thick veil. "He is to take her name, you know; her father made that stipulation in his will." "Well, I call it a clear case of sale and barter. Somerset evidently means to have his liberty still, if his careless conduct for the last month is to be taken as a guide to his future doings. The happy pair go to Paris for the honeymoon, but I venture to predict that when that is over, Mastodon Square and the Glen---or their mistress-will see very little of Mr. John Somerset." "Oh! well!" was the careless reply, "Anne Dysart must expect that, you know." The train steamed at last into the terminus, and Salome, alighting before either of her companions could offer her any assistance, at once entered a cab. "St. Peter's, Mastodon Square. Put me down before you come to the church." The man whipped up his horse, and rattled westward at a good pace over the stony streets. Salome sat upright in the vehicle, white and rigid. What was she about to do? Did she mean to witness this mock ceremony, or to prevent it? She did not know herself; a horrible indifference seemed to have taken possession of her, and though the cab-horse's rate of progress appeared fearfully slow to her, she was in no hurry to reach her destination. One thing alone was clear to her, one idea was uppermost in her mind a burning desire to look upon the woman who had supplanted her in her husband's love. That any other feeling than love for Anne Dysart had prompted her husband's action never occurred to Salome Somerset. No; he had harked back to that boyish fancy for the heiress: he had crowned the 7 calf-love which he had laughed about so often with the calm preference of manhood. He had tired of Salome and poverty, and had chosen Anne Dysart and wealth. At last the cab turned the corner of the square, and the driver stopped. The church, approached by its broad stone steps, was at a little distance, and Salome walked slowly towards the edifice, round which a motley crowd was assembled. On leaving the cottage she had borrowed a large waterproof cloak from Mrs. Jerrold, and this, with a thick veil over her face, would serve as a disguise if the bride or bridegroom's eyes should, by chance, stray to her figure. Salome passed through the crowd unnoticed, and, in the wake of a few well-dressed persons, she entered the church. One glance showed her that she was too late to prevent the ceremony. The wedded couple were just leaving the altar. Salome crept into a dark corner near the door, and watched with eager eyes the brilliant crowd which followed in the wake of the bridegroom and bride. She saw her husband's pale face without a tremor of the heart the time for thinking of him had not come and then looked long and steadily at the bride. Anne Dysart, as I have before stated, was not young, but the prosperous forty years of her sheltered, pampered life had left very few traces of time on her comely face. The wavy brown hair was plentiful, and was exquisitely arranged under the tremulous orange-blossoms and costly veil, and the well-moulded figure, if too buxom for the poetical idea of a shrinking bride, was in perfect harmony with the new state she had entered. A warm color flushed her rounded cheek, and a glance of exultation flashed in her blue eyes as she cast a hurried glance round the thronging group of friends, before she dropped them in such bashful confusion as became a bride. That glance wrought more than Anne Dysart knew. She heard herself hailed as Mrs. Somerset-Dysart: she had won a long-desired triumph: here, by her side, was the man of her choice-her husband, but that proud flash of triumph from her sparkling eyes had lighted a deadly fire in the heart of an enemy. In that moment all that was pitiful, all that was womanly, all that was good, died a sudden death in the heart of Salome Somerset. In one moment her feet advanced towards the brilliant crowd: the words were on her lips which should break up the assembly in confusion as dire as that which ended Macbeth's royal feast-but they were not spoken! As the bride's eyes flashed with triumph, a terrible thought arrested Salome, and stopped short the act and word by which she had meant to bring instant shame on Anne Dysart. There was a deeper shame, a bitterer anguish than that which she could hurl on the bride at the altar. It might be hard indeed, to lose the bridegroom, bitter indeed to feel the pity of surprised friends, but these were light things to the black despair and unalloyed shame which must crush the wife who was no wife, when the man she had believed in was torn from her clinging arms. "She loves him," said Salome, cruelly, to her own heart: "she loves him; I will leave him to her till another day, when it will be harder to part, but when they must part, unless she prefer him and shame together." So Salome Somerset crouched unseen in the dark corner by the doorway, and the bridal train swept outward with all its panoply of splendour. Once again, as John Somerset and his bride stepped across the sacred threshold, Salome peered out cautiously, and looked into her husband's face. It was very pale, and a sombre shadow rested upon it. Was he thinking of that other wife, of that other wedding, so different from this, so empty of splendour, so poor in outward trappings, but so rich in passionate love? Did he, while passing under the stately portico, where so many high-born men and women had gone before him to wedded blissor misery-did he think of that poor little City church, standing far back from civilised thoroughfares in a network of alleys, where, with the pew opener for bridesmaid and the beadle for father, he had made Salome Saxon his wife P Or was he thinking of that pretty cottage on the edge of Liscott Moor, where Salome was to live with her child, and which would be his haven of refuge to flee to from the troubles of fashionable life his little Eden of love and bliss when the apples of his worldly Paradise began to pall upon a wearied taste? Can a man gather figs of thistles? Shall not he reap that which he hath sowed? John Somerset's hand had sown broadcast the seed of tares: the crop was already springing, but the sower could not guess how deadly the harvest was to be. The carriage drove away, the crowd melted all at once, as London crowds do, and the quiet figure in the waterproof cloak passed down the broad stone steps, her humble garment sweeping the crimson cloth, so lately beautified by the lustrous satin robe and rich draperies of Mrs. Somerset-Dysart. In after days Salome could never remember how she spent the two hours which intervened between her leaving St. Peter's church and her arrival at the terminus in time to catch the afternoon train to Liscott. She had a confused notion of noise and bustle, and of being once or twice in danger of passing vehicles, and, finally, of arriving at the station in a cab, and taking her seat in the train. Her thoughts had forsaken the present, and hurried forward to a distant day-say a year hence-when her vengeance would be completed, when she should stand before the proud bride, the prouder wife, and, perhaps, she reflected with almost fiendish delight, the happy mother, and tear from her, one by one, these titles of happiness-holding before her the dread alternative of a shameful parting, or a more shameful love. As the train neared Liscott Salome's mind cleared, and during the walk to the cottage her plans of revenge arranged themselves. She would write a line to her husband this evening, as had been arranged, telling him what she knew, and forbidding him to return to their home until she summoned him. She would write calmly, and suffer him to think that her great love would lead her, in time, to forgive him, if he kept silence, and abstained from seeing her until she herself arranged an interview. Then she would leave the cottage secretly with the child, and hide herself from John Somerset until her scheme of revenge was matured. As she drew nearer to her home her thoughts again became confused, and a feeling of faintness-due to violent emotion and her day's unbroken fast-came over her, blotting out strong feelings, and leaving a numbed sense of weariness and lassitude. She opened the wicket gate, and walked up to the house door. Before she could knock the door was opened from within by a gentleman who was unknown to her a kind-looking, fatherly man in black clothes, whose appearance plainly showed him to be a doctor. Without speaking he led her into the little parlor, where stood Mrs. Jerrold weeping and wringing her hands. Nurse and baby were not to be seen, and, even in her terrible fear and surprise, Salome noticed that the white fur rug was gone from the fireplace. |