“Through the man’s own carelessness—ask the manager,” the overseer interposed before Amherst could answer.
A deep murmur of dissent ran through the crowd, but Amherst, without noticing the overseer’s reply, said to Mr. Tredegar: “He’s at the Hope Hospital. He will lose his hand, and probably the whole arm.”
He had not meant to add this last phrase. However strongly his sympathies were aroused, it was against his rule, at such a time, to say anything which might inflame the quick passions of the workers: he had meant to make light of the accident, and dismiss the operatives with a sharp word of reproof. But Mrs. Westmore’s face was close to his: he saw the pity in her eyes, and feared, if he checked its expression, that he might never again have the chance of calling it forth.
“His right arm? How terrible! But then he will never be able to work again!” she exclaimed, in all the horror of a first confrontation with the inexorable fate of the poor.
Her eyes turned from Amherst and rested on the faces pressing about her. There were many women’s faces among them—the faces of fagged middle-age, and of sallow sedentary girlhood. For the first time Mrs. Westmore seemed to feel the bond of blood between herself and these dim creatures of the underworld: as
Amherst watched her the lovely miracle was wrought.
[ 64 ]
