A Front of Brass by Fred M. White — Read

The brougham flashed along in the darkness of the night bearing its fair burden in the direction of the residence of Sir Bruce Leverton, which fine old country house stood some five miles distant from Scarsdale place. As she drove along with the fresh crude air on her face, Ellen gradually recovered her courage. She had fully made up her mind to show Philip what she was made of, though she bitterly regretted the repetition of that suspicious bias which had come near to wrecking her own life three years before. She recalled now how she had forced her pride down and actually gone out of her way to see Philip and implore his forgiveness. She recollected that incident as vividly as if it had only been yesterday. How stern he had been at first, and yet with a look in his eyes that belied his manner, and how noble and forgiving he had been long before a confession was made, how he had almost commanded her never to refer to it again. It would be almost as well perhaps for adversity to come so that Ellen could prove herself in deeds as well as words.

The wind was rising higher, there was no moon, and the sky was tilled with ragged clouds. Darker and darker it grew until presently in the narrow throat of a lane the brougham almost stopped. There had been something approaching a gale the previous night and the roadway was strewn with broken branches. Presently a figure appeared out of the gloom and held up his hand for a signal for the coachman to stop. Ellen could hear words passing.