The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his hurried way through the long dewy grass, and, crossing the Park, gained the road, which, however, was not the high one. He had yet another hour’s rapid walk, before he could reach his point of destination; and when that was accomplished, he found himself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign his own arms, and situated in the high road opposite his own Park. He was confident that his person was unknown to the host, or to any of the early idlers who were lingering about the mail, then breakfasting.
‘Any room, guard, to London?’
‘Room inside, sir: just going off.’
The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James took his seat in the Edinburgh and York Mail. He had two companions: the first, because apparently the most important, was a hard-featured, grey-headed gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air of acuteness and conceit; the other was a humble-looking widow in her weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had recently roused themselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and now, after their welcome meal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds.
‘Well! now we are off,’ said the gentleman. ‘Very neat, cleanly little house this, ma’am,’ continued he to his companion. ‘What is the sign?’ ‘The Hauteville Arms.’ ‘Oh! Hauteville; that is—that is, let me see! the St. James family. Ah! a pretty fool that young man has made of himself, by all accounts. Eh! sir?’
‘I have reason to believe so,’ said the Duke.
‘I suppose this is his park, eh? Hem! going to London, sir?’
‘I am.’
‘Ah! hem! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. Fine ground wasted. What the use of parks is, I can’t say.’
‘The place seems well kept up,’ said the widow.