“There's too strong a flavor of hare in it,” said Magen-nis, critically.
“That's exactly its perfection; the wild savor lifts it out of the vulgar category of Irish stews, and assimilates it, but not too closely, to the ragout. I tell you, Mac, there's genius in the composition of that gravy.”
The partial pedantry of this speech was more than compensated for by the racy enjoyment of the speaker, and Magennis was really gratified at the zest with which his young friend relished his meal.
“It has one perfection, at least,” said he, modestly,—“it 's very unlike what you get at home.”
“We have a goodish sort of a cook,” said Jack, languidly,—“a fellow my father picked up after the Congress of Verona. Truffles and treaties seem to have some strong sympathetic attraction, and when diplomacy had finished its work, a chef was to be had cheap! The worst of the class is, they 'll only functionate for your grand dinners and they leave your every-day meal to some inferior in the department.”
It was strange that Magennis could listen with interest always whenever Massingbred spoke of habits, people, and places with which he had never been conversant. It was not so much for the topics themselves he cared,—they were, in reality, valueless in his eyes,—it was some singular pleasure he felt in thinking that the man who could so discuss them was his own guest, seated at his own table, thus connecting himself by some invisible link with the great ones of this world!
Massingbred's very name—the son of the celebrated Moore Massingbred—a Treasury Lord—Heaven knows what else besides—certainly a Right Honorable—was what first fascinated him in his young acquaintance, and induced him to invite him to his house. Jack would probably have declined the invitation, but it just came at the moment when he was deeply mortified at Nelligan's absence,—an absence which old Dan was totally unable to explain or account for. Indeed, he had forgotten that, in his note to his son, he had not mentioned Massingbred by name, and thus was he left to all the embarrassment of an apology without the slightest clew as to the nature of the excuse.
No sooner, then, was it apparent to Massingbred that young Nelligan did not intend to return home, than he decided on taking his own departure. At first he determined on going back to Dublin; but suddenly a malicious thought sprung up of all, the mortification it might occasion Joe to learn that he was still in the neighborhood; and with the amiable anticipation of this vengeance, he at once accepted Magennis's offer to “accompany him to his place in the mountains, and have some shooting.”
It would not have been easy to find two men so essentially unlike in every respect as these two, who now sat discussing their punch after dinner. In birth, bringing-up, habits, instincts, they were widely dissimilar, and yet, somehow, they formed a sort of companionship palatable to each. Each had something to tell the other which he had either not heard before, or not heard in the same way. We have already adverted to the strong fascination Magen-nis experienced in dwelling on the rank and social position of his young guest. Massingbred experienced no less delight in the indulgence of his favorite pastime,—adventure hunting. Now, here was really something like adventure,—this wild, rude mountain home, this strange compound of gloom and passion, this poor simple country girl, more than servant, less than wife,—all separated from the remainder of the world by a gulf wider than mere space. These were all ingredients more than enough to suggest matter for imagination, and food for after-thought in many a day to come.
They had thus passed part of a week in company, when the incident occurred of which our last chapter makes mention, and an account of which, now, Massingbred proceeded to give his host, neither exaggerating nor diminishing in the slightest particular any portion of the event. He even repressed his habitual tendency to sarcasm, and spoke of his antagonist seriously and respectfully. “It was quite clear,” said he, in conclusion, “that he did n't know I was a gentleman, and consequently never anticipated the consequence of a blow.”