THE MOORES OF MOORE'S COURT.

BY DENIS F. HANNIGAN.

CHAPTER XI.

THERE was a garden attached to Moore's Court: a pleasant spot, where luxuriant apple-trees hung, laden with fruit, and beds of rich flowers met the eye on every side. Here Charles Callanan sometimes indulged in the luxury of a quiet stroll before breakfast, inhaling the delicious fragrance of the flowers and the pure breath of the morning air. Early on the morning after he had read Miss Quain's story, he happened to be walking along the gravelled path that wound its way around the garden, pondering over the incidents of the little tale, and speculating on the peculiar tendency of the mind that could dwell so lovingly on such an ethereal theme, when, suddenly looking up from the ground, he beheld the quiet governess advancing towards him.

"Excuse me for intruding on you, Mr. Callanan," she said, with a look of surprise equal to his own; “I was not aware that you were in the garden."

"I hope you do not imagine, Miss Quain, that I regard your presence as an intrusion, in any sense," Charles quickly returned. "No; I did not mean that," she said, blushing slightly; "but you may wish to be alone in order to think."

"Do you know what I was thinking over just now?" he asked, rather abruptly.

"Probably some philosophical question," Miss Quain suggested, with her usual quiet smile.

"No; I was thinking over your delightful little tale, Miss Quain. I assure you I read it with very great pleasure."

"I am glad it pleased you, Mr. Callanan. It had no pretensions to literary excellence; but I believe it was written with a sincere purpose."

"Oh! you do yourself less than justice," said Charles, warmly. "Your story is written with genuine sympathetic power; and it has the great merit of simplicity, which is a thing very rarely attained."

"Yet simplicity is sometimes looked on with contempt," the governess remarked.

"Yes, by vulgar minds," Charles returned, with considerable warmth; "all true art must be simple in the higher sense-that is, it must be the unaffected utterance of the heart."

"If your principle be the correct one," said the governess, "Burns is our most perfect artist."

"Not quite," he replied quickly. "Burns is, in some cases, the very reverse of simple. Take, for instance, 'The Cotter's Saturday Night,' in which there is a most painful striving after effect. If you compare the style of this poem with a well-known production of one whom we always regard as a very artificial poet-I refer to Gray's ' Elegy'-you cannot help being struck by the contrast. Gray appears far less ponderous and involved." "But is it not taking an unfair advantage of Burns to judge of his poetry by this single example? His songs are the very soul of feeling. You could scarcely say, Mr. Callanan, that they are devoid of simplicity?"

"Yes; his songs are the productions in which he has truly shown his wonderful lyric power. Herein Burns showed the native force of genius, unassisted by any artificial aids. It was only when he tried to be philosophical that he lost his original powcr. He could not, like Shakspeare and Dante, write on sublime subjects in a simple style."

"Do you not think Burns was rather devoid of reverence?" the governess quietly asked.

"I agree with you, Miss Quain; he shows a foolish tendency to sneer at things that are holy and beautiful in themselves. And that reminds me of what struck me particularly in reading your tale; it showed deep religious sensibility."

"I wished to show the influence of religion on a child's mind,” Miss Quain observed; "and perhaps it is difficult to describe that forcibly. True religious emotion lies so far bencath the surface that it seems to shrink from all display."

"Perhaps you are too diffident," said Charles.

"On the contrary," she returned, "I believe I am self-conscious enough to realize my own powers fully; but, then, I cannot be blind to my shortcomings."

"You seem determined to be a severe critic of your own work, Miss Quain. I would advise you not to be afraid of failure. As long as you are sincere in your desire to succeed, and have a good object in view, I do not see why you should fear the disapprobation of others."

"If you allude to literary efforts," said the governess, "I fear I shall not find leisure to devote myself to such pursuits again for a long time. The fact is, Mr. Callanan, I find myself at present in too real a world to give myself up to ideality."

"But must we not all look up to some ideal, Miss Quain, if we wish to make our lives truly noble?"

The governess smiled. "I believe I have an ideal," she said; "but I do not think it is right to despise everything that fails to reach my ideal. There is much in the common-place things of life that excites my deepest sympathy."

"You try to attain your ideal, then, by practical means," . Charles returned, with a smile. Here he looked at his watch.

"I believe it is breakfast-time, Miss Quain," he observed; " and that is one of the things even idealists cannot overlook."

They both left the garden together; and when they entered the breakfast-room, they found that the family had already assembled around the table. Lady Moore, who presided at the head of the table, wore her usual placid smile; but the baronet was looking unusually gloomy, as if some hidden troubles were preying on his mind. Aunt Deborah, with her usual sanctimonious aspect, sat next to her brother, apparently in a state of devout self-absorption. Rose Moore, who sat beside her brother, cast a quick, suspicious glance at Charles and the governess as they entered the room. But Frank Moore, whose temper seemed always to be quite unruffled, addressed Charles with careless gaiety :

"In what region have you been wandering now, my fine fellow? I thought you were still in dreamland."

"I have emerged from that region more than two hours ago," replied Charles. "The fact is, I met Miss Quain in the garden, and we had a short conversation there. I hope we have not kept you waiting too long, Lady Moore," he added, glancing quickly towards that lady.

"Oh! not at all, Mr. Callanan," Lady Moore smilingly returned. As Charles and Miss Quain took their seats, Rose Moore remarked in rather a sarcastic tone:—

"You and Miss Quain seem to be cultivating quite a Platonic friendship, Mr. Callanan."

Charles reddened, and replied with some confusion: “I believe Miss Quain and myself are sincere friends."

"Somehow I distrust all friendships," said Rose; "they promise too much, and generally disappoint in the end."

"I think that is rather a narrow view, Miss Moore," Charles returned. "Friendship has in it something so noble and unselfish that all nations have regarded it with honour, and the greatest poets have spoken of it with enthusiasm. Homer has given us a beautiful picture of heroic friendship in the story of Achilles and Patroclus."

"Oh! pray don't go back to the Trojan war," said Rose, with a slight curl on her lip. "We cannot be supposed to live now like the ancient Greeks."

"You are disposed to be rather hard on me, Miss Moore," replied Charles, slightly conscious that he had laid himself open to this retort by his learned allusion; "but I scarcely think we arrive soonest at truth by assuming beforehand that no such thing exists. I was speaking of friendship as a genuine sentiment, and not as a mere pretence."

"I have seen so little of what you call friendship that I cannot undertake to say whether it is a good thing or not," said Rose, coldly.

"Spenser considers friendship a nobler feeling even than love," observed Miss Quain.

"Does he, though?" Frank interposed; "that reminds me of a poem by Doctor Johnson, in which the joys of friendship are rather finely described. I remember the opening lines :—

Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven,

The noble mind's delight and pride,
To men and angels only given,

To all the lower world denied.""

"But, then, it is very hard to find a true friend," Lady Moore quietly remarked.

"I believe it is often our own fault that we do not make many friends," said Charles.

"For my part, I think the root of all the relations of modern life is self-interest," observed Sir Annesley, who seemed to regard the discussion as utterly puerile.

"True friendship is supposed to rest on something deeper than self-interest," said Charles, warmly; "history tells us of persons who died for their friends."

"Oh! Damon and Pythias!" exclaimed Rose, laughing ironically; "I thought that had been exploded long since."

"How cynical we are!" cried Frank, who did not relish his sister's self-sufficiency. "I thought young ladies were generally a little sentimental."

"I think Miss Moore slightly exaggerates her own feelings," said Charles. "It is scarcely possible that she can seriously doubt the existence of friendship, without which, in my humble opinion, the world would be a very dreary place. It has been said by a higher authority than any we can lay claim to (with all respect) that 'a faithful friend is the medicine of life.""

"Oh, you refer to the passage in Ecclesiasticus, no doubt," Aunt Deborah interposed; "but you must not forget the words in the context: 'and they that fear the Lord shall find him.' This shows that the friendship of profane history, to which you were referring a while ago, Mr. Callanan, cannot be the true friendship."

I am ready to allow, madam," said Charles, "that Christianity helps to ennoble friendship as it ennobles everything else; but, at the same time, it would be absurd to say that high virtue did not exist among the great nations of antiquity."

"I consider that human nature is utterly depraved," Aunt Deborah loftily observed. "Without the supernatural light of grace, there is nothing but evil in the human heart."

“That's rather a depressing doctrine, Aunt," said Frank; "and I am inclined to look more kindly on poor human nature." Aunt Deborah smiled grimly, but disdained to argue with one who professed such pagan sentiments.

During breakfast, Sir Annesley appeared strangely abstracted.

The solitary remark he made in reference to Charles's ideal conception of friendship seemed rather to spring from a secret, illfeeling against the world at large, than from any direct interest in the subject they had been discussing. When they had all risen from the breakfast-table, the baronet, approaching Charles, said: "Will you kindly come into the library, Mr. Callanan? I have something to say to you."

"With the greatest pleasure, Sir Annesley," returned Charles, evidently very much surprised by the request.

Rose Moore, whose vigilant ears had caught her father's words, seemed not less surprised than Charles himself; but, restrained by discretion or a regard for her own dignity, she did not give expression to her feelings.

Charles followed Sir Annesley to the library, which was a small room situated in the western wing of the old mansion. The rays of the sun were almost completely shut out by a large stained-glass window that adorned the room in front, a small window at the other side admitting only a feeble light. There was a table in the centre of the apartment, on which lay some writing materials, and near it was a large easy chair. Here Sir Annesley sat down in rather a formal manner; and Charles quietly seated himself on the only other chair that the room contained. Sir Annesley, with his fingers interlaced and his thumbs moving uneasily, seemed at a loss how to introduce whatever he had to say. Charles in vain tried to conjecture what could be the cause of his discomposure.

"Your father, I believe, Mr. Callanan, is a person of high standing in the commercial world?" the baronet at length began, with some stiffness in his manner, despite a desperate effort to be familiar.

"My father is said to be a successful man of business," said Charles, who felt no great interest in discussing questions of a financial character.

Sir Annesley coughed slightly. "I have never had the pleasure of meeting him-at least, not to my knowledge—I mean, in fact, he and I have never come into contact." The baronet paused in some confusion, feeling conscious, perhaps, that he was unnecessarily repeating himself. "But," he continued, with an effort, “I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting him soon."

'It is very kind of you to say so, Sir Annesley," Charles returned, seeing that some kind of reply was called for.

"I have observed that you are a young man of considerable intelligence," Sir Annesley went on, with what appeared to Charles some inconsequence in his remarks; "and as you and my son Frank have been at college together, there is a certain equality between us. But, you see, society has its distinctions; and it happens that your father-you'll excuse my putting it so plainly -does not move in our-well, circle, let me say."