“When did they arrive?” said the Knight, interrupting a catalogue, every name of which, although unknown, sent a feeling like a stab through his heart.
“They came the evening before last, sir; Mr. Lionel Darcy, who arrived the same morning—”
“Is he here?” cried the Knight; and, without waiting for more, hastened forward.
The servants, of whom there seemed a great number about, were in strange liveries, and unknown to the Knight; nor was it without undergoing a very cool scrutiny from them that Darcy succeeded in gaining admittance to his own house. At last he reached the foot of the great stair, whence the sounds of music and the din of voices filled the air; servants hurried along with refreshments, or carried orders to others in waiting; all was bustle and excitement, in the midst of which Darcy stood only half conscious of the reality of what he saw, and endeavoring to reason himself into a conviction of what he heard. It was at this moment that several officers of a newly quartered regiment passed up, admiring, as they went, the splendor of the house, and the magnificent preparations they witnessed on every side.
“I say, Dallas,” cried one, “you're always talking of your uncle Beverley: does he do the thing in this style, eh?”
“By Jove!” interposed a short, thick-set major, with a bushy beard and eyebrows, “this is what I call going the pace: do they give dinners here?”
“Yes, that they do,” said a white-faced, ghostly looking ensign; “I heard all about this place from Giles of the 40th; he was quartered six months in this county, and used to grub here half the week. The old fellow is n't at home now, but they say he's a trump.”
“Let's drink his health, Watkins,” cried the first speaker, “here's champagne going up;” and so saying, the party gathered around two servants, one of whom carried an ice-pail with some bottles, and the other a tray of glasses.