“For heaven’s sake, girl!” snapped the Dowager. “Let us have no die-away airs, I beg of you! One would suppose the end of the world to be upon us! Well, Sale, you are come in a good hour! That fancy-piece of yours had found another fool to run mad over her blue eyes.”

“Gilly, I have been quite unworthy of your trust in me!” Harriet said, in a conscience-stricken tone. “I am so mortified, and I fear you will think I have been dreadfully to blame!”

He trod over to her swiftly, and raised her hands to his lips, and kissed them both. “No, no, I could never think that!” he said. “I should not have saddled you with such a tiresome burden!”

“Very true!” said the Dowager.

“Do you know, then, Gilly?” Harriet asked, her eyes searching his face.

“Yes, I know. Belinda has run away again.”

“I was just writing a note to tell you of it. I have been driving out with Grandmama and when we returned, I discovered—Gilly, is it—is it Charlie?”

“Yes.”

She saw the same tightening of the mouth which had alarmed Nettlebed, and timidly laid a hand on his sleeve. “You are very angry! Pray do not be! I think—I think Charlie did not exactly understand the nature of the affair!”

The irrepressible old lady by the fire gave a croak of sardonic mirth. “Small blame to him! I have no patience with these missish tricks, girl! One would say a young man had never before mounted a mistress!”

“Oh, Grandmama, hash! Of course I know—But I promised Gilly I would let no harm befall Belinda!”

“Harm, indeed! The minx does very well for herself, I vow! I see no occasion for these tragedy airs!”

Harriet clasped her hands together. “I had not thought that he had been alone with her, Gilly, but I have been questioning the servants, and it seems that when he would not go to Lady Ombersley’s party with us, saying that he was engaged with some friends of his own, he spent the evening here, with Belinda. But I do not believe the mischief was concerted between them then! Belinda was very unhappy, you know, when you told us how you had been unable to find Mr. Mudgley—”

“I have found him,” he interrupted.

“Oh, Gilly, no! When she may have gone off with Charlie! It makes it worse! What shall we do?”

“I am going after them. I came only to discover if you knew more than I do, and to inform you that I have received a communication from your brother, apprising me of the event. Obliging of him!”

She winced at this, but the Dowager thumped her cane on the floor, and ejaculated: “Are you crazy, Sale? Let me tell you that you are well rid of the girl! My grandson will know better how to deal with her! I wonder you will concern yourself in this ridiculous fashion over such Haymarket-ware! I knew her for what she was the instant I clapped eyes on her!”

“Grandmama, it is only since she had the misfortune to break your Sevres bowl that you have thought so!” said Harriet pleadingly.

“You are wrong, ma’am,” said the Duke. “She is not yet Haymarket-ware, and I do not mean her to become so.”

This put the old lady out of all patience, and she delivered herself of a scathing denunciation of the namby-pamby behaviour of the present generation. Since her tongue was always salted, and never more so than when she lost her temper, she brought hot blushes to her granddaughter’s cheeks. The Duke, however, heard her out with chill civility, bowing slightly when she stopped for want of breath, and turning to address his betrothed. “You do not know when Belinda, left this house, my love?”

“No, for no one saw her, but I think it cannot have been very long since. It was the unluckiest thing that I was obliged to go with Grandmama to Monkton Combe, for we have been away from the house since noon. Whimple has told us that Gaywood was here shortly after we drove away, and I fear that it must have been then that he—that the mischief was planned. You know how it is when Belinda is not quite happy, Gilly! She cries, and she looks so very lovely—not in the least like other people!—and poor Charlie must have been led astray, and have offered to take care of her, without, perhaps thinking—”

“Nonsense, Harriet!” the Duke said. “It was not Gaywood that was led astray!”

She hung her head. “It isvery bad of him, I know,” she faltered. “Indeed, I am very sorry!”

He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for!”

“She might be sorry to be such a fool, and you too, Sale!” interpolated the Dowager.

He paid no heed to this, but said: “I am going after them, of course. I imagine Gaywood will have taken her to London, for he will scarcely have the effrontery to be seen with her in Bath, under our noses! I beg your pardon, Harriet, and yours, ma’am: I shall be unable to escort you to the Assembly Rooms tonight I hope you will forgive me.”

“Oh, Gilly, as though I cared for that! Indeed, I have no wish to go! If—if you should not dislike it very much, I will go with you to fetch Belinda back!”

“Hoity-toity, what next?” demanded the Dowager. “That would be the outside of enough, girl! Junketing about the country like any hoyden! You will do no such thing!”

Harriet flushed, but looked beseechingly up at the Duke. “Would it be improper, Gilly? You must be the judge, but I wish very much to go with you.”

He pressed her hand. “No, not improper, but I could not permit it, love. There is not the least need, moreover.”

“No. Oh, no! Only that—when he is vexed, poor Charlie has such a dreadful temper, and—and you are angry too, Gilly!”

“Oh, you need have no fear on that score!” he said reassuringly. “We shall not brawl in public, I hope!”

“I do not wish you to quarrel!” she said piteously.

“My dear, you are being absurd!” he said. “I might give Charlie a trimming, but I do not intend to come to pistols with him!”

“You would not, I know, but he—!”

“No, no!” he said. “He is not such a fool!” She was obliged to be satisfied, and he took his leave of her, promising to visit her immediately upon his return to Bath.

When he reached the Christopher again, he found his chaise waiting for him. He determined to drive first to Lord Gaywood’s lodging in Green Street, to learn what he might there, but as he had no expectation of finding Belinda there, and believed it to be possible that he might have a long drive before him, he went first into the hotel to provide himself with an overcoat. He ran up the stairs, and was brought up short on the landing by the sight of Tom, coming out of his parlour. “Good God! What are you doing in Bath, Tom?” he demanded, misgiving in his heart.

“Oh, sir, I thought you was never coming!” Tom cried, grasping his hand with painful enthusiasm. “I have been waiting for you this age, and that fusty old Nettlebed would not tell me where you was gone to! It is such a lark, and I know you will be pleased with me this time!”

“But what are you doing here? No, never mind! I can’t stay now, Tom. You shall tell me about it another day.”

“No, no, you don’t understand, sir! Oh, do come into the parlour! I must tell you!”

He exerted all his lusty strength to tug the Duke to the parlour. He was plainly in a state of considerable excitement, and big with portentous tidings,

“Well, be quick, then, for I have an important engagement out of town!” said the Duke. “Does your papa know you are here?”

“No, but that don’t signify! It is too bad! He says we must go home tomorrow, and I might bid you farewell on our way through Bath! The shabbiest thing, for I know how it would be, with the chaise waiting, and Pa in one of his fusses to be off! And I have so much to tell you, sir!”

“Yes, Tom, but indeed I cannot stay to hear it now!”

“Oh, no! But you asked me why I was in Bath, you know.  I have rid in, and your groom said I might take the roan cob, and you would not mind!”

“No, but—”

“And I thought I had better come to Bath today, perhaps, because, as it chances, I shot a sheep,” explained Tom airily. “I did not do it on purpose, sir, and I daresay it is not much hurt, and I expect it is your sheep and I know you will not be angry for a thing like that, but Lord Lionel might not be quite pleased, perhaps, if he hears of it. So I thought I would come to see you, sir.”

“Yes, Tom, but—”

“I thought you would tell Lord Lionel that you do not care for the sheep,” suggested Tom tentatively.

“Do you wish me to give you a note informing Lord Lionel that you have my permission to shoot sheep?” asked the Duke, unable to help laughing. “Much good would it do you! Now, Tom, be a good boy, and go back to Cheyney!”

“But I haven’t told you what has happened!” Tom protested. “I know you will like to hear it, sir, and I only did it at least; for the most part—because I thought you would be pleased! Because you were vexed when Belinda went away with that old gentleman in Hitchin, and you were for ever saying she must not talk to strange men!”

“Belinda?” the Duke said sharply. “What’s this, Tom? Have you seen Belinda today? Tell me at once, if you please!”

“I am telling you, sir!” Tom argued, aggrieved. “You were not here, when I rode in, and the waiter said you was gone off somewhere with your bailiff. He is a famous fellow, sir! He took me—”

“Never mind that! What is this about Belinda?”

“Oh, that! Well, when I heard you was gone out, I thought I would go to those gardens again, and so I rode off down Bridge Street. And just as I came to Laura Place, I saw Belinda coming down the steps of one of the houses She did not see me, for I was not near, only I could not mistake, you know, because of her yellow hair, and besides that she had both those stupid bandboxes. So I didn’t go up to her, because she is such a bore, sir! And I was just going on my way when a fine beau jumped out of a hack that was standing close by, and he went smash up to Belinda, and took the boxes, and said something to her, and handed her into the hack, and got in after. And even then, sir, I didn’t think of what a lark I could kick up! Only, of course, I knew you would not like her to go off in a hack with the beau, so I thought I would follow it, and very likely rescue her, if she would like it, or at any rate see how it would be to be a Runner, or a spy, or some such thing. And only fancy, sir! the hack drove past the Pelican! And it went on for ever, almost out of the town! It stopped at last at a big inn, and Belinda got down, and the beau, too, and I could see they were arguing about something, though of course I was not near enough to hear what they said, but you know how Belinda looks when she does not like a thing! I really did think then that she would like to be rescued, and I dismounted, and tethered the cob, and went past the inn, pretending just to be sauntering along, you know. And I saw them through one of the front windows, and they were arguing—at least, the beau was, and Belinda was just sitting. So I thought I would make a plan to steal her away, and I was just on the point of hitting on something famous, I daresay, when the beau came out of the inn, and jumped into the hack, and shouted to the jarvey to drive to Milsom Street. I could see he was in a furious rage, and I quite thought Belinda had sent him to the rightabout, only that she never does, and he was a regular dash, I can tell you: complete to a shade! And of course she had not, but only to buy her a purple gown! Such stuff! I think girls are the stupidest things! For you must know, sir, that when the beau drove off I went in to rescue Belinda.” He paused and gave a disgusted sniff. “It would have been a splendid adventure, but she doesn’t care for anything jolly, and she wouldn’t go with me, not even when I told her you would not like her to talk to the strange beau. She said she was going to live in London, and have a grand lodging, and a carriage, and all sorts of trash, and she would not go back to the cross old lady, and you could not find Mr. Mudgley, so what else was she to do, and much more beside, but all fustian! I told her she would not go to London in a hack, for it was a great way off, and she said she was going in a chaise-and-four, like a lady, and that was what she was arguing about with the beau, for he wanted to drive her in his curricle, but she would not have it! Only fancy, sir! You would not have supposed that even Belinda could be so stupid! I wish I could drive to London in a curricle! I would gallop at such a rate! I would take the shine out of them all! I would—”