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‘Fine land this,’ said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows, deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure: ‘very fine land, if you saw it in the summer or spring.’

‘Ay,’ responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. ‘It’s old Maxwell’s, I suppose.’

‘It was his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it all to his niece.’

‘All?’

‘Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his nephew down in —shire, and an annuity to his wife.’

‘It’s strange, sir!’

‘It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near relations of his own – none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish that this lady should have it.’

‘Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.’

‘She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s nursing a fine estate for him in – . There’ll be lots to speak for her! ’fraid there’s no chance for uz’ – (facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well as his companion) – ‘ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I hope?’ – (to me). ‘Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman myself. Look ye, sir,’ resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and pointing past me with his umbrella, ‘that’s the Hall: grand park, you see, and all them woods – plenty of timber there, and lots of game. Hallo! what now?’

This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at the park-gates.

‘Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?’ cried the coachman and I rose and threw my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself down after it.

‘Sickly, sir?’ asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I daresay it was white enough.

‘No. Here, coachman!’

‘Thank’ee, sir. – All right!’

The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images, thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain – my hope was gone for ever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must not be – I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable of such a thing? – of presuming upon the acquaintance – the love, if you will – accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support, apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly have kept her unknown to me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable.