Anne was just becoming conscious.
‘O, Mr. Derriman, never, never!’ she murmured, sweeping her face with her hand.
‘I thought he was at the bottom of it,’ said John.
Anne opened her eyes, and started back from him. ‘What is it?’ she said wildly.
‘You are ill, my dear Miss Garland,’ replied John in trembling anxiety, and taking her hand.
‘I am not ill, I am wearied out!’ she said. ‘Can’t we walk on? How far are we from Overcombe?’
‘About a mile. But tell me, somebody has been hurting you—frightening you. I know who it was; it was Derriman, and that was his horse. Now do you tell me all.’
Anne reflected. ‘Then if I tell you,’ she said, ‘will you discuss with me what I had better do, and not for the present let my mother and your father know? I don’t want to alarm them, and I must not let my affairs interrupt the business connexion between the mill and the hall that has gone on for so many years.’
The trumpet-major promised, and Anne told the adventure. His brow reddened as she went on, and when she had done she said, ‘Now you are angry. Don’t do anything dreadful, will you? Remember that this Festus will most likely succeed his uncle at Oxwell, in spite of present appearances, and if Bob succeeds at the mill there should be no enmity between them.’
‘That’s true. I won’t tell Bob. Leave him to me. Where is Derriman now? On his way home, I suppose. When I have seen you into the house I will deal with him—quite quietly, so that he shall say nothing about it.’