It was a settled thing; an arranged meeting. Dolff was almost glad, though with a sense of anguish in his heart. He had his arm thrown out to strike, when with the impulse of rage and jealousy which prefers to feed its flame, to hear a little more of the depravity it means to punish, he restrained himself once more and followed. How it was they did not hear him following almost in their footsteps close behind them he could never tell. They were entirely absorbed in each other. Meredith took that hand which Dolff scarcely dared to touch, and drew it familiarly within his arm.
“It is dark, nobody will see us,” said the well-known voice. “Just for this once.”
What did he mean by his “just for this once,” the shameless villain? If it was for once, should it not be forever? Dolff strode on behind close as their shadow; it was quite dark, and the few lamps in St. John’s Wood gave a very moderate light. They did not see him, they were too much absorbed in each other. But he could no longer make out what they said. Meredith was discoursing upon something which Janet did not seem to understand any more than Dolff did; but when he stooped down over her, holding the hand which was upon his arm in his, and said, “My little Janet,” both Janet and Dolff, with his supernatural hearing, understood very well. Thus they came in their temerity, trusting to the darkness and to the loneliness of the deserted, silent streets, close to Mrs. Harwood’s door.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Dolff blotted himself out against the wall, under the tree which bent over the wall of his own garden, and threw a rugged shadow on the pavement. He was invisible in the gloom of the wintry night. They went up in their boldness almost to the very door, and stood there whispering, yet starting at every noise. Dolff could scarcely hear Janet’s hesitating little voice, but he drank in every sound of Meredith’s.
“No, no; there will be nobody out at this hour. Don’t be afraid. Ah! there might be Dolff. No; Dolff’s waiting for you to come in to teach him his new song, Janet. Little daring! to train a lout like that. Well, you’ll keep your eyes open, and if you hear or see anything further, report to me at once. It’s very important. What do you say? Don’t be in such a fright, dearest; nobody will see us.”
Then there came a murmur from Janet, too low to be heard.
“Yes, there you’re right. There might be Vicars, the everlasting Vicars whose occupation will be gone, and who will have to return to be a butler, like the others. Oh, no, I’ve no pity for Vicars. I daresay it was he who put his mistress up to it. Mind you keep a good look-out. You don’t know how important it may be for me. Yes, I know I must go. It will be droll after this, won’t it, to meet solemnly, as if we had not seen each other for ages, and didn’t care if we never met again? Eh? To be sure, I’m going to dinner, and you are never seen on those occasions. Poor little Janet, eating her morsel up in the nursery, like a naughty child, and knowing there’s some one downstairs. Never mind, I shall only think of you the more.”
“And make fun of me with her?” said Janet, in a sharper, more audible tone.
“With Gussy, bless her! No, she never lets me make fun. She don’t understand it. You needn’t be jealous, little one, though I avow it’s droll enough, the position altogether: to keep her in good humor—and then you, you little spitfire.”