People have said, retrospectively, that the rise of the Mangan family dated from the fall of Larry Coppinger into the Feorish River. This may, or may not have been the case but it is certain that Mrs. Mangan’s way through the world took at about this time an upward trend, and one of the most perceptible ascending jerks was the result of Lady Isabel Talbot-Lowry’s Sale of Work.

This function had been ordained with, for object, the provision of a fund for the renovation of the parish church of Knock Ceoil, and was obviously a matter without interest for persons of another denomination. Lady Isabel, and Miss Coppinger, and others of their friends and neighbours slaved at the provision of munitions for it, as good women will slave at such enterprises, squandering energy on the construction of those by-products of the rag-bag that wen specially consecrated to charitable purposes by the ladies of their period.

“No one will want to buy this rubbish,” said Miss Coppinger, who never tried to deceive even herself, “but people will have to spend their money on something, and we’re not going to raffle bottles of brandy as they did at that R.C. Bazaar in Riverstown!”

Frederica could be just, but when a question of religion intervened, she found it hard to be generous.

The Sale of Work took place during the September that followed the winter of Larry’s disaster, and it was indisputable that the Mangan family contributed materially to its success. Mrs. Mangan was of a class that is accustomed to get its money’s worth, and was herself known and respected as an able and inveterate haggler. Yet, at the Mount Music Sale, she was content to hide her talent beneath innumerable chair-backs and night-dress cases, purchased, uncomplainingly, at the prices marked on them, and to permit the contents of an apparently inexhaustible purse to flow in a golden stream from stall to stall. Her family were no less in evidence, the Big Doctor offering himself a cheerful victim on the shrine of raffles, even attaching himself to Christian as a coadjutor in the sale of tickets for the disposal of one of Rinka’s latest progeny. Mrs. Mangan’s son and daughter, something subdued by unfamiliar surroundings, were, on the disposal of the puppy-tickets, taken in hand by their father, and were, with an eloquence that seemed meant for a larger audience, made acquainted with the notable objects of the house.

“If I could get hold of your mother, now,” the Big Doctor would say, “I’d like her to see this,” or “Look at that picture, Tishy! That’s a lovely woman! The Major’s grandmother, I believe. We’ll ask Miss Judith ’pon my honour, it might have been done of herself!”

Miss Judith, with a fruit and flower stall near the portrait in question, coldly admitted the relationship, and ignored the question of the likeness. Judith was of the age of intolerance; moreover, she was at that moment in the act of selling a button-hole to Bill Kirby, and the Doctor’s enthusiasm was undesired.

The little family party moved on, while Dr. Mangan, with the ease of an habitue, indicated to his son and daughter the ancestral portraits in the dining-room, the Cromwellian arms on the staircase, the coats-of-arms, the Indian weapons, the foxes’ masks in the hall. The son and daughter received the information coldly. It was their first introduction to the interior of Mount Music, and while Tishy was filled with a great resolve to be impressed by nothing, Barty was silenced by those tortures that unfamiliar surroundings have power to inflict upon the shy.

In his determination to instruct his young in all the possible objects of interest, Dr. Mangan strolled away from the crowded scene of the sale, and led them down the long passage, dedicated to sporting prints, that led to the library.

“There’s a picture there that’s worth seeing, of a Meeat Coppinger’s Court in the time of Larry’s grandfather,” he announced impressively, as he opened the door. “The Talbot-Lowrys and the Coppingers were always fine sports men

A tall old screen stood between the door and the fireplace from behind it a hunted voice said:

“Who the devil’s there now?”

Dr. Mangan thought, complacently: “My diagnosis was correct!” Aloud he said to his son and daughter, in a tone of hoarse consternation: “To think of our blundering in on the Major like this! Here! Away now, the pair of you!”

He advanced from behind the screen.

“Major! My most humble apologies! I never thought of you being here! I was showing that boy and girl of mine some of your beautiful things.”

Major Talbot-Lowry was unlike his daughter Judith in many things, and not least in his easy sufferance of those whom she, in youthful arrogance, called cads.

“Come in, Doctor, and have a cigar in peace,” he said, hospitably, putting on one side the novel he was reading. “I thought you were Evans, or one of the maids, coming to bother me. This damned show has turned the house upside down!”

“Well, it seems a great success,” said Dr. Mangan cordially.

“Very good of you to come,” responded his host, “more especially when it’s er it’s er such a purely local affair

Dr. Mangan understood that he was receiving the meed of religious tolerance.

“Well, Major,” he said, expansively, “I lived long enough one time in England to learn that we mustn’t give in too much to the clerical gentlemen! My own instinct is to be neighbourly, and to let my friends mind their own religion.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Major Dick, magnanimously, forgetting, for the moment, those epithets that, in his more heated moments, he was accustomed to apply to the ministers of the Church to which he did not belong. “Quite so, Doctor. I’m all for toleration, and let the parsons fight it out among ’em! Busy men, like you and me, haven’t time to worry about these affairs we’ve other things to think about!” He stretched a long arm for a box of cigars, and handed it to his visitor; “sit down for a bit. There’s no hurry. The ladies can have it all their own way for a while!”

Dr. Mangan lowered his huge person into an armchair of suitable proportions, and for some moments smoked his cigar in appreciative silence. As a matter of fact, he was planning an approach to the subject that had instigated his visit to the library, but he was in no hurry to begin upon it, remembering that the longest way round is often the shortest way home.

“By the way, Major,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth, and regarding it with affection, “did some one tell me that you were looking for a farming horse?”

“If they didn’t, they might have,” replied Dick. “McKinnon’s at me to get another. I was going to ask you if you knew of anything?”

“Well, now, that’s funny. I was wondering to myself this morning what I’d do with that big brown horse of mine. He’ll not go hunting again, he never got the better of that hurt he got. But he’s the very cut of a farm-horse. You see, the poor devil had to carry me!” ended the Big Doctor, with a laugh at himself.

“I’ll tell McKinnon of him. He wants a horse that will ” a recital of the accomplishments exacted by Dick’s steward followed.

Dr. Mangan listened with attention.

“Tell McKinnon he’d better have him over on trial. I know him and his requirements! The horse mightn’t be able to play the piano for him!” said the Doctor, facetiously. “I’m not afraid of you, Major, but I’ve a great respect for Mr. McKinnon!”

“Oh, I’ll tell old Mack he’ll be lucky to get him,” said Dick, with his pleasant laugh; “you and I will strike the bargain!”

The approach had been pegged out, and Dr. Mangan turned, for the moment, to other subjects.

It was a damp and sodden day near the beginning of September, and a comfortable turf fire centralised and gave point to the room, as a fire inevitably does. Major Talbot-Lowry was in the habit of saying that the day of the month never warmed anybody yet, and if it was only for the sake of the books the truth being that the library fire at Mount Music had never, in the memory of housemaid, been extinguished save only when “the Major was out of home.” Dick, like most out-of-door men, considered that fresh air should be kept in its proper place, outside the walls of the house, and an ancient atmosphere, in which the varied scents of turf, tobacco, old books, and old hound-couples, all had their share, filled the large, dingy old room. Dusty and composite squirrel-hoards of objects that defy classification, covered outlying tables, and lay in heaps on the floor, awaiting that resurrection to useful life that Major Talbot-Lowry’s faith held would some day be theirs, and were, in the meantime, the despair and demoralisation of housemaids.

Deep in the bearskin rug in front of the fire (a trophy of one of the rifles that filled a glass-fronted case over the mantel-shelf) lay the two little fox-terriers, Rinka and Tashpy, in moody and determined repose. For a brief period of suffering they had attempted to cleave to Christian; but as the throng grew, and the time for tea lingered, they had, in high offence, betaken themselves to their ultimate citadel, the library.

“I suppose it was her pup I was raffling awhile ago,” remarked Dr. Mangan, presently, as Rinka languidly rose, and having stretched herself, and yawned, musically and meretriciously, put her nose on his broad knee, deliberating as to whether the distinction of a human lap outweighed the lowly comfort of the bearskin.

“Doggie! Poor doggie! Down, now, down!” Dr. Mangan had no idea how to talk to dogs, and he did not wish Rinka to sit on his best grey trousers.

“Hit her a smack!” said Major Dick; “don’t let her bother you. Christian has spoilt these dogs till they’re perfect nuisances! Yes, it’s her pup. Who won it? It ought to be a clinker; it was the best of the lot

“I d’no did they draw for it yet. I took three tickets for it myself,” said the Doctor. “I want it for a sort of a cousin of me own a very sporting chap that’s coming to Cluhir; he asked me could I get him a dog.”

“What’s he going to do in Cluhir?” asked Dick, carelessly.

The approach was now clear, and Dr. Mangan began to advance.

“Well, he’s just taken his degree. He’s a doctor, and he’s coming here for a while. He can give me a help while he’s looking out for a dispensary. He’d like some place where he’d get a little hunting now and then. I expect you know his father, Major old Tom Aherne, of Pribawn

Major Talbot-Lowry became more interested.

“You don’t say old Tom’s son is a doctor! By Jove! That’s very creditable to him a decent old fellow Tom was and you say he wants to hunt? That’s the right sort of doctor! Look here!”

Dick sat up, the light of inspiration woke in his ingenuous blue eyes, he wrinkled his forehead with the super-intelligent concentration of a not very brilliant intellect. “Didn’t I hear that old Fogarty is giving up the Dispensary here? Why don’t you run him for that?”

The shepherding of Dick Lowry was really an affair of a simplicity unworthy of preparation made by that ruse old collie, the Big Doctor. Nevertheless, being an artist, he continued to play the game.

“Knock Ceoil! Begad, that’s a great notion! Now I come to think of it, I did hear something of old Fogarty giving up, but somehow I never thought of young Danny Aherne in connection with it. I thought I was as well able as any man to put two and two together, but I declare I might never have thought of it if it hadn’t been for you! They say, if you’re too close to a thing, you can’t see it!”

Thus did the collie yap, while the sheep (who was a member of the Dispensary Committee) gratified, and pleasantly conscious of originality, trotted up the path and into the fold that had been prepared for it.

Meanwhile, in what house-agents call the reception-rooms, the Sale of Work raged on, with auctions, with raffles, with card-fortunes, told in a cave of rugs by a devoted sorceress, in a temperature that would inure her to face with composure the witch’s destiny at the stake; with “occasional music,” that fell upon the turmoil of talk more softly than any petals from blown roses on the grass, and was just sufficiently perceptible to impart the requisite flavour of festivity. One item of the musical programme had indeed had power to still the storm, but since it was contributed by the Mangan Quartet, it must be admitted that, charming though it was, it owed something of its success to surprise. The countryside had rallied to Lady Isabel with a response that did credit to her as to them, yet, thronged though the rooms were the Mangan family shone with a unique lustre as alone representing the mighty Church of Rome.

“Wonderful of them to come!” said the Church of Ireland ladies approvingly; “the only R.C.’s here!”

Yet the Mangan family was not quite alone in this representative position; young Mr. Coppinger, their (as it were) inventor and patentee, shared it with them, and was, moreover, beginning, for the first time, and not without displeasure, to realise something of the social complications that are involved by the difference of creed. It was a matter of atmosphere; quite intangible, and quite perceptible. Larry was discovering that he was something of an anomaly. “Only an R.C. by accident,” as he had heard someone say, in apparent extenuation (a benevolence that he found irritating). He was learning the meaning of the sudden silences, the too obvious changes of the course of conversation, that seemed to occur when he drew near. He had not, as yet, formulated these things to himself, but, on this turbulent afternoon, it was possibly some livelier apprehension of them that made him gravitate towards Barty Mangan, as towards a fellow pariah, and induced him to seek with him the far asylum of the schoolroom. There, save for the schoolroom cat, they were alone, and they sat for some minutes in grateful silence, looking out, across misty stretches of grass, to the river, and beyond it to the dense green of the trees of Coppinger’s Court. The sky was very low and grey; by leaning out of the window a little, a far-off reach of river, at the western end of the valley, could be descried; above it there was a narrow slit in the clouds, and through it a faint and lovely primrose light fell, like a veil, that hid, while it told of the deathbed repentance of the dying day. Larry dragged his chair into the corner of the window, and watched the growing glory of the sunset with all his ardent soul in his eyes.

Whatever this boy did, he did vividly, and to Barty Mangan, seated on the shadow side, watching him, he was, as ever, a pageant, a being of incalculable impulse, of flashing intensity and splendour.

“Where on earth did you go, Barty? I looked about for you for ages before I found you; but there was such an awful crowd of women I’m jolly glad to get out of it!” Larry leaned back in his chair and proceeded to light a cigarette, as an assertion of the rights of a man of nearly seventeen.

“My father was taking Tishy and me about, showing us the house,” replied Barty, apologetically. (As a matter of fact, he said “me fawther,” but if this, and similar details of pronunciation, are not known by nature, it is labour in vain to attempt to indicate them by means of the wholly inadequate English alphabet.) “Larry,” he went on, with the candour that made a gentleman of him, “I never was in a house like this before. I declare to you it frightens me! I feel like a rat gone astray! I was in the dining-room by myself, looking at the pictures, and that old fella’ of a butler came in and frightened the heels off me! He kept an eye on me that was like a flame from a blow-pipe! You’d say he thought I was going to steal the house!”

“I expect he did, too,” said Larry, “especially if he thought that you were a pal of mine. He hates me like blazes. He’s one of those damned Orangemen. I say, do you remember that thing in The Spirit of the Nation, ‘Orange and Green will carry the Day’? I bet old Evans would rather lose, any day, than be ‘linked in his might’ with a Papist like you or me! It’s a most extraordinary thing how religion plays the devil with Ireland!”

There are certain standard truisms that must be rediscovered by each successive generation (possibly because they have bored the preceding one to extinction), and Larry was of the age at which truisms reveal themselves as new ideas, and sing and shine with the radiancy of morning stars. He was also young enough, and just sufficiently interested in religion, to find it exciting to denounce it. The fervour of his indictment lifted him from his chair, and he stood, with the evening light on his hot face, enjoying his theme, and his audience.

“I stayed with some people in England last holidays, friends of my people’s; Protestants they were, too Sour-faces,’ as the ‘Leader’ calls them! and they didn’t give a blow what religion I was! That was my affair, they thought and so it was, too! Not like this crowd here I don’t mean my own people, you know,” he added hastily, “they’re all right!”

“Oh, I’m sure!” said Barty, in instant assent.

“I hate England, of course,” continued the student of The Spirit of the Nation, hurriedly, “but I must say I get sick of this eternal blackguarding of Catholics by Protestants, and Protestants by Catholics

“Ah, they don’t mean it half the time!” put in Barty, pacifically; “it’s just a trick they have!”

“Well, I don’t care,” said Larry, who didn’t like being interrupted, with a fling of his head; “they shouldn’t do it! I hear people shutting up when I come into the room just as if I didn’t jolly well know they were abusing the priests or something like that. And if they only knew it, I don’t care a curse how much they abuse them!”

He took an angry pull at his cigarette, glaring at the unoffending Barty. “’’Tisn’t the man I respects, ‘tis the office!’ That’s what Mrs. Twomey said, when I was chaffing her for dragging gravel up from the river to put in front of her house, because the priest, whom she loathes, was going to have a ‘station’ there!”

The orator paused for breath, as well as for the duty of keeping his cigarette alight.

“Well, and isn’t she quite right, too?” said Barty. “I’ve no great fancy for Father Greer, but that doesn’t affect my feeling for the Church.”

He rose, and resting his elbows on the window-sill, leaned out into the still air.

“By Jingo! You don’t often see the beat o’ that for a sky! Look at it, Larry. There’s Orange and Green for you, if you like! God! I wish we could get them to work together like that!”

One of those transformation scenes that sometimes follow on an overcast and rainy day, was happening in the west. The sun had sunk behind the hills, the grey clouds had vanished; the higher heaven was green, clear and pale, but low in the west, long and fleecy rollers of golden cloud lay in a sea of burning orange.

At about the same time, the golden stream that had flowed so generously from Mrs. Mangan’s purse, had failed, and Mrs. Mangan, her arms full of the fruit of those Christian graces of Faith, Hope and Charity, that are indispensable to the success of a bazaar, was asking Evans to order for her her “caw,” by which term she indicated the vehicle that had conveyed her to the scene of her triumph.

For it was evident to the meanest capacity that Mrs. Mangan had now paid her footing in society.