Susy was only twenty-two, and she had been a widow for over twelve months. She had married when only nineteen, a honest hard working man who was more than twice her age. There had been no love in the match, so far as she was concerned;—she was an orphan,—poor,—lonely, and pretty.

She was only a weaver, and not very expert, yet she managed to make sufficient to pay her board and to keep herself well dressed, for the position she occupied, and her beauty,—for she was very beautiful, and her natural taste enabled her to present an appearance so much superior to those with whom she was in daily contact, that many envied her, and some looked askance at her, and shook their heads, and predicted evil to come.

Some one had dubbed her 'the Factory Belle,' but she never resented what many would have considered insults or slights, but kept on in her own innocent, yet attractive and attentive way, and commanded a certain amount of respect even from those who were secretly her enemies.

No one would for a single moment suspect that she was a widow, for not only was she so young, but looked even younger. That her husband had worshipped her was not difficult of belief, and that she had been to him a kind, fond wife was indisputable;—her gratitude for his kindness and his self-sacrifices to secure her happiness had been such, that if she did not love him with the blind infatuation of youth's fond dream, she respected him, and he was first in her then unawakened affections.

When he was suddenly stricken down with a fell disease which was at that time ravaging many of the towns in the West Riding, she nursed him faithfully, and when he died,—holding her little white hand in his brown, brawny fist, she shed the bitterest tears that had ever dimmed her beautiful blue grey eyes.

After the last sad rites were over, she had disposed of the household furniture, which was all he had been able to leave her, and paid every claim that was presented, finding herself once more alone, and dependent on her own exertions for a living.

She had plenty of sympathizing friends, and more than one would willingly have provided for her in the hope that at some future time they might win her for themselves, but she was of a very independent spirit and preferred to depend on her own efforts to provide for her wants.

She had no difficulty in obtaining employment at the weaving shed where she had worked before her marriage; and right welcome did her fellow workers make her, and the look of sadness which for a time clouded her face, though it did not detract her from her beauty,—by degrees cleared off,—her eyes sparkled as before,—the bloom came back to her velvet cheeks and her lips curled again into the bewitching smile that suited them so well, and with her added years, were developed charms that she had not possessed before.

Her swelling bust accentuated her tapering waist, and her beautifully rounded arms, her well shaped, small hands,—her graceful carriage, all combined to produce a perfect specimen of Yorkshire female lovliness.

Where hundreds were employed, it was not to be expected she would lack admirers. She had many,—many more than she even imagined.

Though almost faultless in face and figure, yet she was not without some faults.

She knew she was beautiful, and she was vain. Much of her apparent artlessness was assumed. She was pleased to be admired, and felt gratified to see the effect of her glance, as she favoured one with a languishing look, and another with a haughty stare, or a wicked, sparkling, mischief loving gleam,—transient on her part but fatally permanent on susceptible hearts.

In her own heart she had never felt love,—she had never sounded the depths of her own nature;—she was as yet a stranger to herself.

Amongst others, who were ever ready at her beck and call were two young men,—both about her own age.—They are both dead now or this story would not have been written. We will simply speak of them as Dick and Jack. One was the overlooker under whom she worked, this was Dick, a prime favourite with the masters, and a clever, honest chap he was.

Jack was known as "Th' oiler," his duty being to attend to the long lines of shafting and revolving pullies. Much of his work, especially the more dangerous part of it, had to be performed whilst the engine was stopped.

Never were known two truer friends than Dick and Jack. After working hours they were seldom separated. They worked together in the little allotment garden which they jointly rented. Even the pig was a partnership concern. Although they were friendly with all they came in contact with, they never made any other special friendships. They were satisfied to be with each other and so confidential were they, that they each lived in the other's life.

Nicknames were common at that day, and Dick was generally spoken of as "True Blue," because of his unswerving integrity. Jack had to be content with the less euphonious title "Th' oiler."

They were neither of them blind to Susy's charms, and admiration blended with pity, and pity, where a beautiful woman is concerned, is likely to lead to something else. They often spoke of her to each other, but it was the only subject on which they ever conversed, that they were not entirely open and honest about. Dick's position gave him many opportunities to be near Susy, and it was remarked that her loom seemed to require more attention than any other under his surveillance.

Susy, with that quick instinct which all women seem to be possessed, saw that he was at her mercy. But she loved her liberty. She had tasted such bliss as married life could offer,—so she thought, and she preferred to feel free to smile on whom she pleased. She was virtuous, and kind, after a fashion, but she was fast becoming a coquet,—a flirt. In her little world she was a queen, and the homage of one did not satisfy her. Hearts were her playthings,—they amused her, and she liked to be amused.

One day, during the dinner hour;—she had brought her dinner to the mill, which was her invariable custom, as the house where she lodged was a considerable distance from the works;—she was sitting in a retired corner in an adjoining room, when looking up she saw Dick standing close by her and regarding her with such a longing, yet troubled look, that although she laughed, and was about to make some flippant remark, she checked herself, and made room on the little bench for him to sit.

"Why, Dick," she said, as he took his place beside her, "what's to do? Has th' boiler brussen, or are we going on strike?"

"Nay, Susy, its summat moor serious nor that. Aw thowt aw should find thee here. Aw hope tha arn't mad at aw've come."

"What should aw be mad for? Tha's as mich reight to be here as me,—an if it comes to that aw suppooas we've nawther on us onny business here an aw think aw'll be gooin."

"Net just yet, Susy;—stop a minnit,—aw've summat to say. Its varry particlar. Can't ta guess what it is?"

"Aw dooant know unless tha'rt gooin to find fault abaat mi piece, an awm sewer aw've done mi best wi it, but yond warp's rotten."

"Its nowt abaat thi wark, its moor important to me nor all th' wark i'th shed. O, Susy, awm sewer tha must know what aw want to say. Tha connot be blind, an tha must know at awm fonder on thi nor o' onnybody i' all this world. Tha knows ha bonny tha art, an tha knows tha's nobbut to put up thi finger an tha can have onny single chap i'th shop, but, believe me, Susy,—ther isn't one at can ivver love thi as aw love thi. Aw'll work for thi throo morn to neet, an tha shall be th' happiest woman i'th world if its i' my paar to mak thi soa. What says ta? Aw willn't hurry thee if tha wants time to think abaat it,—but tell me,—is ther onnybody at tha likes better?"

"Why, Dick, tha's fairly knockt th' wind aght o' me. Tha sewerly forgets at awm a widdy. A young chap like thee doesn't owt to be lukkin after widdys, when ther's soa monny single young lasses abaat waitin for chaps."

"It'd mak noa difference to me if tha wor a widdy twenty times ovver. Tha'rt th' grandest woman aw ivver met, an if aw ivver do wed it'll be thee. Come, nah, tell me,—we havn't mich time befoor th' engine starts. Is ther onnybody tha likes better nor me. Spaik aght. If ther is aw'll bide it as weel as aw can, an aw'll nivver trubble thi agean."

"Noa, Dick, ther isn't. That's gospel trewth. Ther's nubdy livin at aw like better nor thee, an aw dooant know another aw like as weel, but tha knows when it comes to weddin, it mun be summat moor nor likin th' next time. It'll have to be lovin. An aw dooant love thee weel enuff, but aw may leearn to do, but tha mun gie me time."

"Yond's th' engine startin, aw mun be off;—an bless thi for what tha's sed. Aw'll mak misen worthy on thi, an tha shall love me at th' finish."

That afternoon Dick seemed to be walking on air. His face was flushed, and his heart beat until his voice was so unsteady that those who had to speak with him eyed him curiously. As he passed Susy's loom she gave him a look so full of love and sympathy that it required an effort to pass on to his other duties.

When the day's work was ended, he waited, as was his custom, for Jack, though he would much rather have gone home alone. He felt selfishly happy, and he wanted to nurse his secret where no eye could read his exultation. It was a something sacred,—too sacred to be shared even with Jack.

As they walked along, they saw Susy tripping away, some distance in advance.

"Yond's Susy, aw see," said Jack. "Aw could tell her onnywhear. Shoo doesn't walk like th' rest on em. Aw wonder if shoo'll ivver think abaat gettin wed agean."

"That's a matter at we've nowt to do wi. Aw suppooas shoo'll pleas hersen," said Dick, in a tone that fairly startled Jack.

"Summat must ha gooan wrang wi' him at his wark," thought Jack, and they walked along, only now and then giving utterance to some common place remark. Dick's conscience accused him. He felt that he possessed a secret that Jack could not share. There was a rift in the lute. Perfect confidence had ceased to exist between them. Why should it be so? he asked himself. Jack has committed no fault. Had the case been reversed he felt sure that Jack would have confided in him. Ah, but Jack could never love her as he loved her! Nobody could ever love her as he loved her! Nobody! Days and weeks went by, and it was a hard time for Dick. Sometimes he was in the seventh heaven of delight, and again he was plunged in the depths of misery and despair.

Susy seemed just as frivolous as ever. His declaration made no difference in her. She dispensed her smiles as impartially as ever, to all appearance unconscious that every favour bestowed on another was a stab to Dick, but however full of resentment he might feel, a sidelong glance which seemed so full of meaning to him banished his discontent and he accused himself of unreasonable jealousy.

The coldness between the two friends seemed to increase, yet they went to work together as usual, but conversation flagged and only indifferent subjects were touched upon. Dick had still unbounded faith in Susy, and although he could not but see that she avoided him, he accounted for it owing to the respect she still felt for the husband she had lost, and to the seriousness of making a second matrimonial venture.

One day, during the dinner hour, something seemed to impel him to see her and plead with her once more. He knew where she was to be found, and was proceeding to the place, when he heard her voice. He was screened by some huge bales of yarn, and he could hear what she said distinctly.

"Its varry kind o' thee, Jack, to tak pity on me,—aw like thee weel enuff, in fact ther's nubdy aw like better, but when aw wed agean it mun be moor nor likin, it will have to be love. Aw may leearn to love thi yet, but tha mun gie me time."

Dick could wait to hear no more. Retracing his steps noiselessly, he went out into the open air. Could it be true? Had his ears deceived him? Was it possible that the beautiful woman on whom he had lavished all the first love of his life could be capable of playing with him in such a fashion? Jack was his rival! He was a sycophant! a hypocrite! a villian!

How the afternoon passed he could not tell. He kept as far away from Susy as his duties would allow, and at night he walked home alone.

Next day he met Jack at the entrance to the works, but he gave him such a look of hatred that he stepped aside and he passed without a word.

Jack was quite unconscious of having done anything to merit such treatment, but by degrees, as he reviewed the incidents of the past few weeks, a light broke upon him;—he saw it all. They were rivals.

From that time all intercourse ceased between the two who had been deemed inseparable. This gave rise to many remarks from their acquaintances, not a few of whom guessed the cause.

Susy seemed quite unconcerned, and smiled as sweetly as ever. Dick furtively watched her, and the more he looked, the stronger grew his mad infatuation and the deeper became his determination to be revenged.

He never again intruded himself on Susy's dinner hour, but he knew that Jack took every opportunity of seeing her, and the work that he should have done during the time the machine was standing, he had to hurry over when it was in motion. It was a hazardous work;—a single slip might lead to a certain and horrible death. But he was experienced and cautious, and he felt no fear.

The fire of revenge, always smouldering, was almost daily fanned into flame by real or fancied causes.

Jack went calmly on his way. He regretted the break in their friendship, but he could not resign Susy. He hoped all things would come out right at last.

A day came, when, as the engine began to set in motion the innumerable shafts and wheels and pulleys, which in turn transmitted their mighty strength over the hundreds of looms,—Dick stood at the end of the row of machines that were under his charge. His eyes had a strange light in them and his face was unnaturally pale, and his hands wandered unmeaningly over the loom nearest him.

A scream reverberated through the shed, above all the clatter of shuttles and whirr of wheels, and was repeated again, and again. There was a rush towards one point. The mighty engine stopped with a groan, and all the wheels were motionless. All the workers had deserted their posts,—nay,—not all. Dick stood shivering, grasping an iron bar for support.

Susy, stood confronting him. The look in her wonderful eyes was one that he had never before seen. No word was spoken. She passed on to join the throng, and Dick followed like one in a dream.

"Poor Jack!" "poor lad!" was heard on every hand. The crowd divided, and four strong men bore the battered and bleeding form into the private office. Dick saw it,—he followed close behind it. Outside the very sunshine seemed red. He seemed to awake from a dream. There was his friend,—the friend he had loved,—nay,—more,—the friend he did love still. And he? what was he? A murderer:

No one had accused him;—no one even suspected him. Yes there was one. Her eyes still seemed to glare at him with their mute accusation.

What did he care? She had caused it all. He inwardly cursed her; and cursing her loved her more madly than ever. There was no revenge in his breast now.

Hastily throwing on his jacket, he followed the ambulance on which lay the unconcious body, covered with a sheet through which the blood had already penetrated. A doctor had been summoned and he said life was not extinct.

When the Infirmary was reached, Dick entered, no one attempted to intercept him. But when the body was placed in the accident ward, all but the doctors and nurses were ordered out. Dick paced the corridor from end to end incessantly. He could not leave until he knew the worst.

He had long to wait, but at last the doctors appeared.

"He still lives, but there is no hope."

And with that terrible sentence ringing in his ear, he had to leave him.

When he reached the works again, he found them closed, but a crowd of workers were gathered there. He joined them. They were discussing the terrible accident.

"Aw saw it," sed one, "aw wor standin cloise to him when th' ladder smashed an threw him onto th' shaft. His smock wor catched in a second, an he wor whirled raand an raand until th' engine wor stopt, and then he dropt to th' graand battered to bits."

"Its ten thaasand pities," sed another, "an aw connot help thinkin ther's been some foul play somewhear. Who can ha takken th' brokken ladder away? That ladder should be examined. Somdy may ha been foolin wi it."

"It does seem strange," said several, "but mooast likely it'll turn up."

They soon began to scatter, and Dick went homewards. The ladder! Who could have taken the ladder? The tell tale ladder, that bore the evidence of his guilt.

Arrived at home, he shut himself in his room and there he sat through what appeared to him an eternity of night. He felt no desire to sleep. Early in the morning found him again at the Infirmary. He questioned a nurse who was passing.

"He is quite conscious now, but he cannot hold out many hours. It is better he should die, than live a helpless cripple all the rest of his days."

"Aw mun see him," he sed, "Do let me see him."

"That cannot be without the doctor's permission," she said, but seeing the frantic grief of the man, she went and brought the doctor's consent.

Dick was soon at the bedside. He saw only the bandaged head. The face was scarcely disfigured, but there was a look upon it that could not be misunderstood.

A faint smile played over his pale features, as he recognised his visitor. Dick could not speak, but sank on his knees by the bedside and sobbed as only a strong man can sob.

"Jack," he sed at last, "can ta forgie me, lad? Aw did it. But aw wor mad! The devil had me in his clutches. Awm willin to suffer for it, but do forgie me. Forgie me for old times sake."

"Aw knew tha did it, but aw forgie thi freely, for tha didn't know it wod end like this. Aw wor to blame for net dooin mi wark when aw should ha done. Dunnot blame Susy. Shoo's worthy on thi. Shoo tell'd me 'at all her heart wor thine, an aw did all aw could to mak thi jaylus. An shoo wor praad, an when tha seemed to slight her it cut her up, but pride wodn't let her tell thi what aw've tell'd thi nah. It's hard to leeav th' world when young, but its mi own fault. Forgie me, Dick, an let me dee, an may thee an Susy be happy."

"That can nivver be, Jack. Thear's noa mooar happiness for me."

There was no response. The eyelids drooped,—the jaw fell. The nurse who had stood at a distance, drew near and spread a white napkin over his face.

"He's gone. 'Tis better so."

An inquest was held. "Accidental death" was the verdict.

The ladder could not be found. Neither Dick nor Susy ever entered those works again. They were both sadly altered. After Jack's funeral, months passed before they met again. What took place when they did meet can only be surmised. Some short time afterwards their was a quiet wedding, and they moved to another town. But Dick never recovered his old spirits, and it was not long before she was a second time a widow.

When Dick was in his coffin and the men stood by to close it for the last time, she placed in it a parcel. It contained two pieces of a broken ladder, showing where it had been sawn almost in two. This is all the story, Susy is living yet. The secret rests with her and me.