“No, thank you,” said Harold.  His voice sounded firm, but I felt the thrill all through the arm I clung to.  “Good night.”

He attempted no excuse, but strode on—­I had to run to keep up with him—­and they drove on by our side, and Nessy Horsman said, “A prior engagement, eh?  And Miss Alison will not release you?  Ladies’ claims are sacred, we all know.”

What possessed me I don’t know, nor how I did it, but it was in the dark and I was wrought up, and I answered, “And yours can scarcely be so!  So we will go on, Harold.”

“A fair hit, Nessy,” and there was a laugh and flourish of the whip.  I was trembling, and a dark cloud had drifted up with a bitter blast, and the first hailstones were falling.  The door of the church was opened for a moment, showing bright light from within; the bells had ceased.

“My dear Lucy,” said Harold, “you had better go in here for shelter.”

“Not if you leave me!  You must come with me,” I said, still dreading that he would leave me in church, send a fly, and fall a victim at the “Boar;” and, indeed, I was shaking so, that he would not withdraw his arm, and said, soothingly, “I’m coming.”

Oh! that blessed hailstorm that drove us in!  I drew Harold into a seat by the door, keeping between him and that, that he might not escape.  But I need not have feared.

Ben Yolland’s voice was just beginning the Confession.  It had so rarely been heard by Harold that repetition had not blunted his ears to the sound, and presently I heard a short, low, sobbing gasp, and looked round.  Harold was on his knees, his hands over his face, and his breath coming short and thick as those old words spoke out that very dumb inarticulate shame, grief, and agony, that had been swelling and bursting in his heart without utterance or form—­“We have erred and strayed—­there is no health in us—­”

We were far behind everyone else—­almost in the dark.  I don’t think anyone knew we were there, and Harold did not stand up throughout the whole service, but kept his hands locked over his brow, and knelt on.  Perhaps he heard little more, from the ringing of those words in his ears, for he moved no more, nor looked up, through prayers or psalms, or anything else, until the brief ceremony was entirely over, and I touched him; and then he looked up, and his eyes were swimming and streaming with tears.

We came to the door as if he was in a dream, and there a bitterly cold blast met us, though the rain had ceased.  I was not clad for a night walk.  Harold again proposed fetching a carriage from the “Boar,” but I cried out against that—­“I would much, much rather walk with him.  It was fine now.”

So we went the length of the street, and just then down came the blast on us; oh! such a hurricane, bringing another hailstorm on its wings, and sweeping along, so that I could hardly have stood but for Harold’s arm; and after a minute or two of labouring on, he lifted me up in his arms, and bore me along as if I had been a baby.  Oh!  I remember nothing so comfortable as that sensation after the breathless encounter with the storm.  It always comes back to me when I hear the words, “A man shall be as a hiding-place from the tempest, a covert from the wind.”