Bess of the Woods by Warwick Deeping

An almost sanctified silence descended upon the interior of the Rodenham coach as the cumbrous carriage lumbered and creaked homeward over the heath that night. It was as though the three inmates travelled half in awe of one another, and were afraid to grapple with the mystery of the situation. The Lady Letitia sat stiffly in her corner, a statuesque and repellent figure in the dusk, while Richard Wilson, feeling very miserable and foolish, remained bolt upright, his knees and toes together, his round face still glistening with sweat. Jeffray lay back against the cushions, staring at the painter with obfuscated curiosity, and trying to explain to himself Miss Hardacre's fainting fit and Cousin Lot's savage attack on Wilson in the hall.

First a few irrelevant remarks passed between the three as the coach rolled on under the stars through the desolate wastes of Pevensel. The road was heavy, and the horses tugged and strained at the traces, the coach rolling on its high springs. They could hear the man-servant's toes knocking against the panelling as he sat perched on the back seat and clung to the rail as the wheels plunged and bumped into the ruts.