“On Saturday,” repeated Linton.
Cashel lingered as he left the room; a longing desire to speak one word, to ask one question of Hoare—who was this Leicester of whom he spoke?—was uppermost in his mind, and yet he did not dare to own he had heard the words. He could have wished, too, to communicate his thoughts to Linton, but a secret fear told him that perhaps the mystery might be one he would not wish revealed.
“Why so thoughtful, Roland?” said Linton, after traversing some streets in silence. “My friend Hoare has not terrified you?”
“No, I was not thinking of him,” said Cashel. “What kind of a character does he bear?”
“Pretty much that of all his class. Sharp enough, when sharpness is called for, and seemingly liberal if liberality pays better. To me he has been ever generous. Why, Heaven knows; I suppose the secret will out one of these days. I'm sure I don't ask for it.”
Linton's flippancy, for the first time, was distasteful to Cashel. If the school in which he was bred taught little remorse about the sin of incurring debt, it inculcated, however, a manly self-reliance to clear off the encumbrance by some personal effort, and he by no means sympathized with the cool indifference of Linton's philosophy. Linton, always shrewd enough to know when he had not “made a hit,” at once turned the conversation into another channel, by asking at what time Cashel proposed to receive his visitors at Tubbermore.
“Is the honor seriously intended me?” said Cashel, “or is it merely a piece of fashionable quizzing, this promised visit, for I own I scarcely supposed so many fine people would like to encounter the hard usage of such an old ruin as I hear this must be.”
“You'll have them to a certainty. I doubt if there will be a single apology. I know at this instant the most urgent solicitations have been employed to procure invitations.”
“With all my heart, then,” cried Cashel; “only remember the order of the course depends on you. I know nothing of how they ought to be entertained or amused. Take the whole affair into your own hands, and I shall concur in everything.”
“Originality is always better than imitation, but still, if one cannot strike out a totally new line, what do you think of taking old Mathews of Johnstown for our model, and invite all our guests with free permission to dine, breakfast, and sup at what hour and in what parties they please? This combines the unbridled freedom of an inn with the hospitality of a country house. Groups form as fancy dictates. New combinations spring up each day,—no fatigue, no ennui, can ensue with such endless changes in companionship, and you yourself, instead of the fatiguing duties of a host, are at liberty, like any of your guests, to join this party or that.”