It always moaned in the drawing-room, whether in calm or storm,
from some undiscovered draught in the high ventilated ceiling.
"I sometimes think," said Arthur at length, in an awestruck voice, "that
Jem may not be dead."
"Not dead! Arthur, how can you be so stupid?"
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.
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