“Heaven help her, then! It’s like his impudence.”
“They are first cousins, you see.”
“So much the worse. I expect, though, Pym will find his match in Sir Dace. I don’t like him, by the way, Johnny.”
“Whom? Pym?”
“Sir Dace. I don’t like his countenance: there’s too much secretiveness in it for me. And in himself too, unless I am mistaken.”
“I am sure there is in Pym.”
“I hate Pym!” flashed Jack. And at the moment he looked as if he did.
But would he have acknowledged as much, even to me, had he foreseen the cruel fate that was, all too soon, to place Edward Pym beyond the pale of this world’s hate?—and the dark trouble it would bring home to himself, John Tanerton?
II.
Striding along through South Crabb, and so on down by old Massock’s brick-fields, went Sir Dace Fontaine, dark and gloomy. His heavy stick and his heavy tread kept pace together; both might have been the better for a little lightness.