Hester did not see Sylvia’s white, dreamy, resolute face, that answered the solemn questions of the marriage service in a voice that did not seem her own.  Hester was not with them to notice the heavy abstraction that made the bride as if unconscious of her husband’s loving words, and then start and smile, and reply with a sad gentleness of tone.  No!  Hester’s duty lay in conveying the poor widow and mother down from Haytersbank to the new home in Monkshaven; and for all Hester’s assistance and thoughtfulness, it was a dreary, painful piece of work—­the poor old woman crying like a child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, in spite of all Sylvia’s careful forethought, could not be avoided on this final day, when her mother had to be carried away from the homestead over which she had so long presided.  But all this was as nothing to the distress which overwhelmed poor Bell Robson when she entered Philip’s house; the parlour—­the whole place so associated with the keen agony she had undergone there, that the stab of memory penetrated through her deadened senses, and brought her back to misery.  In vain Hester tried to console her by telling her the fact of Sylvia’s marriage with Philip in every form of words that occurred to her.  Bell only remembered her husband’s fate, which filled up her poor wandering mind, and coloured everything; insomuch that Sylvia not being at hand to reply to her mother’s cry for her, the latter imagined that her child, as well as her husband, was in danger of trial and death, and refused to be comforted by any endeavour of the patient sympathizing Hester.  In a pause of Mrs Robson’s sobs, Hester heard the welcome sound of the wheels of the returning shandry, bearing the bride and bridegroom home.  It stopped at the door—­an instant, and Sylvia, white as a sheet at the sound of her mother’s wailings, which she had caught while yet at a distance, with the quick ears of love, came running in; her mother feebly rose and tottered towards her, and fell into her arms, saying, ’Oh!  Sylvie, Sylvie, take me home, and away from this cruel place!’

Hester could not but be touched with the young girl’s manner to her mother—­as tender, as protecting as if their relation to each other had been reversed, and she was lulling and tenderly soothing a wayward, frightened child.  She had neither eyes nor ears for any one till her mother was sitting in trembling peace, holding her daughter’s hand tight in both of hers, as if afraid of losing sight of her:  then Sylvia turned to Hester, and, with the sweet grace which is a natural gift to some happy people, thanked her; in common words enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and with that strange, rare charm which made Hester feel as if she had never been thanked in all her life before; and from that time forth she understood, if she did not always yield to, the unconscious fascination which Sylvia could exercise over others at times.

Did it enter into Philip’s heart to perceive that he had wedded his long-sought bride in mourning raiment, and that the first sounds which greeted them as they approached their home were those of weeping and wailing?