Her pallour gave way to a quick rush of colour, her eyes widened like a frightened child’s, and two tears rose and rolled slowly down her face.
“Oh, why wasn’t I told? Is he married? Has he children? What does it matter whose fault it was?” she cried, her questions pouring out disconnectedly on a wave of anger and compassion.
“It warn’t his fault.… The cards are too close … It’ll happen again.… He’s got three kids at home,” broke from the operatives; and suddenly a voice exclaimed “Here’s his wife now,” and the crowd divided to make way for Mrs. Dillon, who, passing through the farther end of the room, had been waylaid and dragged toward the group.
She hung back, shrinking from the murderous machine, which she beheld for the first time since her husband’s accident; then she saw Amherst, guessed the identity of the lady at his side, and flushed up to her haggard forehead. Mrs. Dillon had been good-looking in her earlier youth, and sufficient prettiness lingered in her hollow-cheeked face to show how much more had been sacrificed to sickness and unwholesome toil.
“Oh, ma’am, ma’am, it warn’t Jim’s fault—there ain’t a steadier man living. The cards is too crowded,” she sobbed out.
Some of the other women began to cry: a wave of
[ 65 ]
