She was not at all awestruck. Her denser, more sordid nature was proof against the silence or the humming wind. The greed of gain has power to kill superstition.
His face puzzled her. Suddenly he cast himself back and hid his face in his hands.
“Oh!” he muttered, “I can't do it, I can't do it!”
In an instant his mother was standing over him.
“Arthur,” she hissed, “you know something?”
“Yes,” he confessed in a whisper at length.
“Jem is not dead?” she hissed again. Her voice was hoarse.
“He was not killed in the disaster,” admitted Arthur. In his heart he was still clinging to the other hope subtly held out by Seymour Michael—the hope that in his simple intrepidity Jem had gone to his death.
“Then where is he—where is he, Arthur? Tell me quickly!”
Mrs. Agar was white and breathless. It was as if she had bartered her soul, and after payment, had been tricked out of her share of the bargain. She trembled with a fear which seemed to fill her world and extend to the other world to come.