Very soon it became clear to Joan that on this point it would be best not to undeceive her aunt, since to do so might provoke some terrible catastrophe of which she could not foresee the consequences. After further reflection, another thing became clear to her: that she must vanish from Bradmouth. What was truth and what was falsehood in Mrs. Gillingwater’s story, she could not say, but obviously it contained an alloy of fact. There had been some quarrel between Henry and his dying father, and in that quarrel her name had been mentioned. Strange as it seemed, it might even be that he had declared an intention of marrying her. Now that she thought of it, she remembered that he had spoken of such a thing several times. The idea opened new possibilities to her—possibilities of a happiness of which she had not dared to dream; but, to her honour be it said, she never allowed them to take root in her mind—no, not for a single hour. She knew well what such a marriage would mean for Henry, and that was enough. She must disappear; but whither? She had no means and no occupation. Where, then, could she go? For two or three days she stayed in her room, keeping her aunt as much at a distance as possible, and pondering on these matters, but without attaining to any feasible solution of them. On the day of Sir Reginald’s funeral, which Mrs. Gillingwater attended, and of which she gave her a full account, she received Henry’s message brought to her by the doctor, and returned a general answer to it. Next morning her uncle Gillingwater, who chanced to be sober, brought her word that Mr. Levinger had called, and asked that she would favour him with a visit at Monk’s Lodge so soon as she was about again. Joan wondered for what possible reason Mr. Levinger could wish to see her, and her conscience answered that it had to do with Henry. Well, if he was not her guardian, he took an undefined interest in her, and it occurred to her that he might be able to help her to escape from Bradmouth, so for this reason, if for no other, she determined to comply with his wish. Two days later, accordingly, Joan started for Monk’s Lodge, having arranged with the local grocer to give her a lift to the house, whither his van was bound to deliver some parcels; for, after being laid up, she did not feel equal to walking both ways. About two o’clock, arrayed in her best grey dress, she went to the grocer’s shop and waited outside. Presently she heard a shrill voice calling to her from the stable-yard, that joined the shop, and a red-haired boy poked his head through the open door. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Joan Haste,” said the boy, who was none other than Willie Hood; “but I’ve been cleaning up the old horse’s bit in honour of having such a swell as you to drive. Stand clear now; here we come.” And he led out the van, to which a broken-kneed animal was harnessed, that evidently had seen better days.