————————
Abaat a year after, when they wor baan to cursen th' babby, Mabel's father wor ax'd to th' ceremony. Mabel wor vexed at Sydney couldn't smook, becoss shoo knew ha fond he wor on it, soa th' afternooin her father wor expected, shoo sed, "we'll cure papa ov his dislike to bacca smook, or else we'll get him to let yo smook ageean."
"Hah'll yo do it, lass?"
"Wait an see," shoo sed, "yo shall smook a pipe to-neet."
He wondered ha it wor to be done, an at fower o'clock shoo sent him off to th' stashun to meet her father.
When they gate back th' whole haase wor full o' bacca smook, in bedrooms an passages, on th' steps, in th' sittin rooms, ther wor thick white claads ov it.
"Oh, dear-a-me," sed Mr. Mothersdale, "whativvers this? Sydney yo've brokken yor promise, an been smookin?"
"Aw haven't," Sidney sed, "nivver a whif hav aw smook'd sin th' day aw promised."
"Noa," Mabel sed, "we've faand a better way nor that, we're booath fond o'th reek o' bacca, soa we get a fumigatin thing aght o'th greenhaase, and burn bacca in it, it sents all th' haase i' noa time, an saves Sydney all th' trubble o' puffin away at pipes an cigars."
He felt he wor done—he couldn't live i' sich a smook as that, soa he tell'd Sydney at if he'd keep his smookin aght o'th raich o' his nooas, he could start when he liked, providin they wodn't use th' fumigator noa mooar.
Sidney slipt aght into th' back garden, an smook'd what he thowt wor th' best cigar he'd ivver had in his life; an as it says in stooary books "they all lived varry happy ivver afterwards."
Beautiful babby! Beautiful lad!
Pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad!
Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;—
Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays;
Two little een ov heavenly blue,—
Wonderinly starin at ivverything new,
Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,—
An planted between em a wee little nooas,
A chin wi a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;—
Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this.
Two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,—
Except when asleep in thy snug little nest.
Two little feet 'at are kickin all day,
Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play.
Welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars,
Soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs.
What tha may come to noa mortal can tell;—
We hooap an we pray 'at all may be well.
We've other young taistrels, one, two an three,
But net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee.
Sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat,
Becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get.
Poverty sometimes we have as a guest,
But tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best.
What are fowks' riches to mother an me?
All they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee.
Aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe,
'At labor an worry wod keep a chap low,—
'At love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee,
When poverty coom in at th' door,—but aw see
Old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark,
For love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark.
Ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild,
'At wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child.
Then why should we envy his wealth an his lands,
Tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands?
For we have the treasures noa riches can buy,
An aw think we can keep em,—at leeast we can try;
An if it should pleeas Him who orders all things,
To call yo away to rest under His wings,—
Tho to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n,
We shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' Heaven
Whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy,
Nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy.
Blessins on thi! wee thing,—an whativver thi lot,
Tha'rt promised a mansion, tho born in a cot,
What fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see,
But Christ coom to call just sich childer as thee.
An this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan,
Tha may yet be a jewel to shine in His craan.
"It's noa use, Sammywell,—aw dooant knaw ha tha feels, but aw can assure thee 'at aw dooant feel so young as aw used to do. When aw wor twenty years younger tha allus set off bi thisen an left me to mooild amang it th' best way aw could; but nah, when tha knows 'at aw can hardly put one fooit afoor tother tha wants me to goa for a walk. Its weel enuff for thee to climb ovver hills an daan dales, becoss thi limbs are limber—thanks to me for takkin care on thi as aw have done. It's miserable for me to caar ith' haase all bi misen, an thee wanderin abaat as tha does, an hardly ivver turns up except at meal times, an net allus then. If tha'd ha takken moor nooatice ov what aw've sed to thi i' years gooan by, we could ha been ridin in a carriage ov us own nah. It is'nt at aw've onny desire to show off, but aw think when fowk get to my age, an have tew'd as aw've done, they're entitled to some ease an comfort. But aw suppooas aw'st nivver know what rest is until awm under th' sod."
"Aw think tha must ha been aitin summat 'at's disagreed wi thi, owd lass, for tha's done nowt but grummel this last two-o'-three days. Tha caars i'th' haase too mich. Tha sees tha connot ride a bicycle, an tha'd hardly like to be seen ridin in a wheelbarro, or else awd trundle thee abaat for an hour or two ivvery day, an awr Hepsabah's peramberlater wod'nt hold thi, if it wod it ud find Jerrymier summat to do an keep him aght o' mischief. Then ther's plenty o' tram-cars, but tha allus says tha feels smoor'd when tha rides i' one o' them, soa awm fast what to do amang it."
"Dooant bother thisen.—Aw'st get a ride one o' theas days as far as th' cemetary, an aw shall'nt hav long to wait unless things alter pretty sooin."
"Well, what wod ta advise me to do?"
"It's too lat on ith' day for thee to come to me for advice. Do thi own way, but when tha's lost me tha'll miss me,—mark that. Tha'll nivver find another to do for thi as aw've done."
"Aw hooap net,—but aw hav'nt lost thi yet, an aw dooant want to. But aw've just getten a nooation! Awm capt aw nivver thowt on it befoor! Aw'll goa see abaat it this varry minnit! Tha shall be reight set up this time. Just have a bit o' patience, an aw'll be back in an haar's time."
"Thear tha gooas agean! If aw say a word to thee tha flies off after some wild goois eearand an manages to mak thisen into a bigger fooil nor tha art. Tell me what tha meeans to do?"
"Aw'll tell thi all abaat it when aw come back, an aw weant belong."
"Well dooant goa an get owt to sup. If tha'rt detarmined to have it, buy some an bring it hooam wi thi, for aw believe tha spaiks trewth when tha sed aw'd getten summat at disagreed wi me, for mi stummack's been varry kittle for a day or two."
"All reight, lass! Keep thi pecker up, an aw'll bring thi raand all reight." An Sammywell set off.
——————
"Aw wish aw'd nivver spokken," sed Mally, as shoo watched him pass th' winder. "He's getten that bankbook in his pocket, an he'll as sewer goa an squander some moor brass as he's livin. He isn't fit to be trusted. He meeans weel enuff, but he's soa simple. Net but what ther's war nor him if yo knew whear to find 'em, an aw believe he tries to do his best, but that isn't mich to crack on. Hasumivver, aw mun put up wi it, soa aw'll get thi drinkin ready, for he sed he wod'nt be long."
It didn't tak her long befoor shoo'd made as temptin an comfortable a meal as onny reasonable chap could desire, an then shoo set daan to wait wi as mich patience as shoo could. Darkness wor creepin on an shoo'd ommost getten stall'd o' watchin th' clock, when ther wor a queer grindin sooart ov a noise aghtside, an in another minnit Sammywell come in.
"Nah, lass! Tha sees aw hav'nt been varry long an aw've browt thi summat. Bring a leet an have a luk at it."
"Whativver is it?" shoo sed, as shoo coom to th' door wi a cannel in her hand. "Whativver has ta getten?" shoo sed, as shoo walked raand it.
"Aw've bowt this galloway an little carriage soas aw can drive thi aght whenivver th' weather's fine."
"Whativver wrangheeaded trick will ta be guilty on next!"
"Why, tha wor grummelin abaat net bein able to get aght o' door, an aw bethowt me at old Swindle had this for sale, soa aw've bowt it."
"An nicely he's swindled thee aw've noa daat. But are ta sewer it is a galloway? Becoss aw wodn't believe what he says if he went onto his bended knees."
"Well, what does ta think it is? Tha can see at it's nawther a elefant nor a camel."
"Well, lad,—it may be all reight, but aw should want somdy else to say soa. It luks varry poorly aw think, luk ha white it is ith' face."
"That's th' color on it. It ails nowt an tha'll say soa when aw drive thi aght ith' mornin."
"Thee drive me aght, does ta say? Nay, lad, aw've moor respect for misen nor that! What does ta think awr Hepsabah an th' naybors wod say. But it'll do for Jerrymier. But whear are ta baan to put it?"
"Aw've getten a place to keep it, an if awther Jerrymier or his mother dar to mell on it, they'll know abaat it."
"Tha need'nt freeat,—ther'll nubdy be ovver anxious to mell ov a thing like that. If tha'd bowt a donkey an cart an started hawkin cockles and muscles or else leadin coils ther mud ha been some sense in it. But tak it away an come in an get thi drinkin an dooant stand thear lukkin as gawmless as that article. Off tha gooas an tak it wi thi, an if it lives wol mornin tha can show it to Jerrymier an ax him whether it is a galloway or net. It luks as if it had coom aght o' Noah's Ark, tho if awed been Noah aw should ha let that thing have a swim for it."
"Tha'rt th' mooast provokin, dissatisfied, ungrateful woman aw ivver met! Awm in a gooid mind to drive away an nivver coom back!"
"If tha depends on that whiteweshed umberella-stand tha wodn't be far to seek. But tha'd better hand me that bankbook, for fear tha should leet o' onny moor curosities, an we're nooan gooin to goa into th' show trade. Nah away wi thi."
Grimes drove off an Mally went into th' haase.
"What a silly owd maddlin he is. Just to think at he should goa an wear all that brass o' me. Awr Hepsabah 'll be fair ranty. But then it's his own brass an he's a reight to spend it as he thinks fit, an aw know ther isn't another body ith' world but me at he'd ha bowt it for. Aw think aw nivver saw a bonnier little thing, but it'll be time enuff to tell him soa when he's cooild daan a bit. Aw have to keep him daan a bit or else he'd sooin be too big for his booits. That's his fooit. When he's had a cup o' this teah, an had theas muffins (aw bowt em a purpose for him) he'll leet his pipe an sattle daan, an aw can sooin bring him raand if he's as mad as a wasp. Aw'st nivver be able to sleep to-neet for thinkin abaat yon'd pony an th' drive aght ith' mornin."
When Grimes coom in he wor lukkin varry glumpy.
"Come thi ways, an get theas muffins wol they're hot,—they're fresh off th' beckstun an that butter's come reight off th' farm an its as sweet as a nut."
Sammywell sed nowt, but as th' teah began to warm him an th' muffins wor just to his likin his face seemed to clear a bit, an when shoo handed him his second cup, he wink'd at her, (he couldn't help it.) "This is a drop o' gooid teah, lass, an aw think aw nivver had grander muffins."
"Aw've tried to suit thi. Has ta fed that galloway an left it comfortable for th' neet?"
"As comfortable as it desarves! But aw did'nt know 'at a whiteweshed umberella-stand wanted makkin comfortable."
"Aw know its all reight for tha hasn't a heart i' thi belly to hurt a flee. What time does ta intend to start off i'th mornin."
"Mak thi own time. But aw thowt tha didn't care to goa."
"It's what aw've been langin for for years, an tha knows, Sammywell, if aw do say a word nah an agean at doesn't just suit thi, its becoss tha aggravates me. If tha'd treeat me as a wife owt to be treated, aw should nivver utter a wrang word."
"Well, tha artn't th' only one i' this haase at gets aggravated sometimes, but we'll say noa moor abaat it. Try an bi ready bi ten o'clock i'th mornin, an we'll start aght if its fine."
"But tha doesn't feel cross abaat it, does ta lad."
"Cross, behanged! If aw tuk onny nooatice o' what tha says, aw should allus be cross. Let's get to bed."
——————
Next mornin Mally wor soa flustered wol when Grimes coom in to his braikfast after lukkin to th' galloway, her hands tremmeld soa at shoo could hardly teem aght his teah.
But shoo managed to get donned at last, an Sammywell browt th' galloway an th' little trap to th' door, an he felt a bit narvous too, for it wor th' furst time he'd ivver driven aght wi his wife, but he wor praad to do it, an his pride kept him up.
They wor i' hooaps o' gettin off withaat Hepsabah an th' naybors gettin to know, but it wor noa use. Sombd'y seen th' galloway, an when Sammywell helpt Mally into her seat, they wor all aght.
Hepsabah stood thear, wi a babby o' awther arm, an Jerrymier at her side, an as they rode past, shoo put on as humble a luk as shoo knew ha, an dropt a curtsey, an sed "Gooid mornin, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes, Esquire." Then shoo brast aght laffin an all th' naybor wimmen waved ther approns or towels or owt else they could snatch howd on, an cheered em wol they gate aght o'th bottom o'th fold.
They tuk th' shortest cut to get aght o'th busy streets, an they worn't long befoor they coom to whear ther wor green fields on booath sides o'th rooad. It wor a grand day, an they sed little for a while, for they wor booath feelin varry happy, an they lukt it.
Old as they wor, an i' spite ov all th' ups an daans they'd had, they felt like sweethearts agean, an if they couldn't luk forrad to th' long enjoyment ov monny pleasures, they could luk back wi few regrets, an hearts full ov thankfulness for all th' blessins they'd had an possessed.
"Aw nivver thowt, Sammywell," sed Mally, after a bit, "at aw should ivver live to ride i' mi own carriage an pair."
"Why, lass, awm pleased if tha'rt suited. But tha can hardly call it a carriage an pair."
"Aw dooant see why net. Its a varry nice little carriage is this an awm sewer th' galloway an thee mak a gooid pair, for aw should tak yo to be booath abaat th' same age, an th' same complection to nowt, except for thi nooas; an yo nawther on yi ivver hurried yorsen mich or seem likely to do; but aw think if aw wor thee awd get aght an shove behind a bit, its a pity to see it tewin up this hill, an its puffin like all that."
"Well, let it puff! If ther's onny shovin to be done tha'll ha to tak thi share on it. We'll stop at yond haase at top o'th hill an then wol we get a bite an a sup, Fanny can rest a bit."
"Who's Fanny?"
"That's th' galloway's name."
"Then it'll have to be kursend ovver agean."
"Ha's that?"
"Dooant thee think 'at aw forget. It wor Fanny Hebblethwaite at wor allus hankerin after thee until we wor wed, an for some time after. Aw've had enuff o' Fannys. We'll call it Jerrymier."
"But its a mare tha sees."
"Well then, we'll call it Jimmima."
"Let's mak it Jenny an ha done wi it."
"Owt'll do but Fanny. Shoo wor a impotent hussy. Aw wonder what becoom on her?"
"Aa! shoo's been deead aboon a duzzen year?"
"Oh, well then—tha can call it Fanny."
They did enjoy thersen that day an noa mistak, an monny a day after, an they're lukkin forrad to monny a pleasant little time.
Th' naybors have getten used to seein em nah an have noa desire to poak fun at em.
Jerrymier has takken a big fancy to th' galloway, an oft gooas an gethers it a basket full ov sweet clover, an when Grimes an Mally arn't using it, Hepsabah an her babbies have a drive throo th' park, Jerrymier acting as th' cooachman.
Th' galloway knows its getten a gooid hooam. It wants for nowt,—Mally taks gooid care o' that. It's one to be trusted an it knows its way abaat. Some day yo may see an old galloway, pullin a little carriage containin an old man an woman;—all three on em saand asleep, an yo can rest assured at that's Grime's an Mally an ther Galloway.
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.
"If aw wor a woman awd——"
"If tha wor a woman tha'd be a disgrace to ivverybody belangin to thi, an thar't little else nah," sed Mally.
"Aw wor gooin to remark, 'at if aw wor a woman——"
"Eah! but tha arn't a woman, an if tha wor tha'd wish thisen a man agean, varry sharply. But if aw wor a man awd set a different example to what tha does. Aw wonder sometimes what thar't thinkin on, if tha ivver does think, which awm inclined to daat, unless its thinkin ha tha can contrive to be awkard an aggravatin."
"Well, but as aw wor gooin to say, If aw wor a——"
"Aw dooant want to hear owt tha has to say abaat it. A fine woman tha'd mak! But aw wish tha wor foorced to swap places wi me for a wick. Aw should like to see ha tha'd fancy gettin up befoor dayleet ov a Mondy mornin an start o' sich a weshin o' clooas as aw have to face ivvery wick; to say nowt abaat starchin an manglin an ironin. An then to start an brew a barrel o' ale for other fowk to sup; an then to bake for sich a family as we've getten,—nivver to mention makkin th' beds an cleanin th' hearthstun,—an' th' meals to get ready, an then to cleean th' haase throo top to bottom ivvery wick,—an darn th' stockins an put a claat on here an a patch on thear, an fifty moor things beside,—an nivver get a word o' thanks for it. Aw just wish tha wor a woman for an odd wick. Aw do, truly."
"As aw sed befoor, If aw wor a——"
"Awm capt tha hasn't moor sense nor to keep tawkin sich foolishness. Tha knows tha arn't a woman an tha nivver can be,—moor's pity. But if aw wor a man awd awther tawk sense or keep mi maath shut. Aw think sometimes 'at summat 'll happen to thi as a judgment for bein sich an ungrateful tyke as tha art. Tha gets up in a mornin an finds thi braikfast ready, an if ther's owt i'th haase at's nice an tasty tha gets it; an then tha walks aght to what tha calls thi wark, an comes to thi dinner, an off agean wol drinkin time, an after that tha awther gooas an caars i' some Jerryhoil, or else tha sits rockin thisen i'th front o'th fair, smokin thi bacca an enjoyin thisen wol bedtime. Ther's some fowk dooant know when they're weel done to. But aw know who it is 'at has to tew an slave all th' day, wi hardly a chonce to wipe th' sweeat off mi face."
"But, if tha'll lissen, aw wor gooin to remark, If aw wor——"
"Tha maks a deeal too monny remarks. Tha'll sit thear, remarkin an praichin bi th' haar together, an nivver give me a chonce to get in a word edgeways. But awm just sick an stall'd o' harkenin to thi. They wor a time, years sin nah,—but aw can remember it tho' tha's forgetten it,—when tha used to sit an lissen to owt aw had to say, an my word wor law then. An if mi little finger warked tha'd hardly be able to sleep ov a neet for trubblin abaat it. But it's different nah. Aw dooant believe it ud disturb thi if mi heead had to tummel off mi shoolders. Aw've studden a gooid deeal sin aw wor wed to thee, an aw expect aw'st ha to stand a lot moor; but one thing aw willn't put up wi, an that is, sittin an listenin to thee, an havin to keep mi tongue still. Soa tha knows."
"Well, but if aw wor——"
"Nah, let it stop just whear it is. Tha's getten a tawkin fit on aw know,—aw wonder thi jaws dooant wark. But aw willn't hear another word! Noa, net a word!"
"But if——"
"Ther's noa 'buts' abaat it! Hold thi noise, do! Tha'd tawk a hen an chickens to deeath. Tha wod. Aw wonder if aw shall ivver have a bit o' peace?—Net befoor awm laid low, aw reckon."
"What wor yond clatter, Mally? Has somdy been smashin summat?"
"Nowt 'at meeans mich. It wor a accident an couldn't be helpt."
"Well, what wor it? Can't ta spaik?"
"It's nowt at's owt to do wi thee, soa tha needn't let it bother thi heead; but if tha'rt soa crazy to know aw can tell thi.—It's awr Hepsabah's Jerrymiah at's brokken th' winder i'th weshus. Nah, arta satisfied?"
"Satisfied! Now! Satisfied bi gum! Does ta think aw've nowt else to do wi mi brass but to buy winders for Jerrymiah to smash? Ha is it awr Hepsabah can't keep her childer at hooam? When we'd childer we nivver sent em raand to ther gronfather's to smash winders! An if aw catch hold o' that young taistrel aw'll tak th' skin off him!"
"Hold thi din, gert softheead! Onnybody to hear thi tawk, 'ud think tha'd gooan cleean wrang i' thi heead! Bless mi life! tha dosn't think 'at th' child did it on purpose, does ta? He wor nobbut tryin his best to catch a blue-bottle-fly, an it went into th' winder whear be couldn't raik it, soa he sammed up a teacup an flang it at it,—nivver thinkin owt abaat th' winder, becoss he knew ha tha hated sich things buzzin abaat thi heead; but whativver that child does it seems to be wrang. Aw'd be shamed o' misen to start grumblin abaat a bit ov a tupny-hawpny winder!"
"Tupny-hawpny winder! Why, it'll cost a shillin to get that winder put in! An what abaat th' teahcup?"
"Oh, that's nowt. It wor nobbut an owd crackt en. Awd meant throwin it away monny a wick sin. Th' child wor sadly trubbled when he saw what he'd done, for he wor feeard tha'd be cross wi him, but aw tell'd him to whisht, for tha wornt to a winder or two, soa tha can give him a hawpny for spice, (tha knows he thinks a deeal moor on it when it comes throo thee,) an tha can call at glazers shop an tell em to send a chap up to put another pane in, an here's sixpence for thisen, sithee, for aw know thi bacca's ommost done."
"That's all reight. Ov cooarse th' child didn't meean to braik th' winder, nor the teacup nawther,—but he owt to be towt different; an aw dooant believe awr Hepsabah knows owt abaat trainin childer as they owt to be trained. But aw'st send noa chap up here to put that winder in. Aw've getten nowt else to do an aw meean to put that in misen. Aw can buy a square o' glass that size, for abaat thrippence, an better glass nor that wor too. But, Mally, nah this is a bargain;—If aw get th' glass an th' putty, and put it in, tha gies me th' shillin th' same as tha'd gie it onnybody else."
"Tha can have th' shillin! Aw'm nooan grumblin abaat th' shillin,—but aw connot see wot tha wants wi soa mich brass day after day. Ther's hardly ivver a day passes ovver thi heead 'at tha dosen't ax me for awther sixpince or a shillin, an awm sewer ther's all tha needs to ait an drink at hooam, an tha's as gooid clooas to don as onny man need wish,—an nobbut th' last Sundy, tha axt me for sixpince for th' collection, an tha nobbut put in a hawpny, for aw wor watchin thi.—A'a, well! but hasumivver, here's another shillin, soa if tha thinks tha can put it in, goa an get a square a glass an ha dun wi it."
"'Think aw can put it in?' Aw dooant think owt abaat it! Aw know aw can put it in! What does ta tak me for? Does ta think aw havn't th' strength an brains enuff to wrastle wi' a bit o' glass like that?"
"Tha's wrastled wi too monny glasses, Sammywell, sin aw knew thi, an they've getten thi daan moor noa once. It's gettin lat i'th' day, nah, to expect thi to mend mich, but if tha'd nobbut sign teetotal an join th' chapel, an buy Jerrymier a new Sundy suit, aw think aw mun see summat to admire in thi even yet."
"Ther's as mich to admire abaat me as ther is abaat some other fowk aw could mention, but aw'll bi off just nah, for when aw've a job to do aw want to get it done, an net stand hummin an haain abaat it like thee."