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 CHAPTER 8
COVERAGE OF LEARNING OBJECTIVES

FUNDA- CRITICAL CASES,

MENTAL THINKING EXCEL,
ASSIGN- EXERCISES COLLAB., &
MENT AND INTERNET
LEARNING OBJECTIVE MATERIAL EXERCISES PROBLEMS EXERCISES
LO1: Identify variances
and label them favorable
or unfavorable.
LO2: Distinguish between A1
flexible budgets and static
budgets.
LO3: Use flexible-budget A1 24, 25, 26 39, 41, 42, 52, 53, 55,
formulas to construct a 27 43, 49, 50 57, 58, 59
flexible budget based on
the volume of sales.
LO4: Compute and A1, A2, B1 34, 35, 36, 37 52, 54, 55, 57
interpret static-budget 38, 39, 43, 50
variances, flexible-budget
variances, and sales
activity variances
LO5: Understand how the 49 56, 58
setting of standards affects
the computation and
interpretation of variances
LO6: Compute and A3, B2 29, 30, 31, 32, 39, 40, 41, 55, 57, 58
interpret price and 33 43, 44, 45,
quantity variances for 46, 47, 48,
materials and labor. 50, 51
LO7: Compute variable B3 40, 41, 44, 45 51
overhead spending and 46, 47, 48
efficiency variances.
LO8: Compute the fixed B3
overhead spending
variance.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 321

 CHAPTER 8
Flexible Budgets and Variance Analysis

8-A1 (30-45 min.) Amounts are in thousands.

1. Flexible Budget Amounts

Revenue $12,600 $13,000 $13,400

Fuel $ 504 $ 520 $ 536

Repairs and maintenance 378 390 402
Supplies and miscellaneous 2,016 2,080 2,144
Variable payroll 7,812 8,060 8,308
Total variable costs $10,710 $11,050 $11,390

Supervision $ 160 $ 160 $ 160

Rent 200 200 200
Depreciation 460 460 460
Other fixed costs 170 170 170
Total fixed costs $ 990 $ 990 $ 990

Total costs $11,700 $12,040 $12,380

Operating income $ 900 $ 960 $ 1,020

2. Cost = $990,000 per quarter plus .85 of revenue

= $990,000 + .85 × Revenue

3. Variances are defined as deviations of actual results from plans. The total
variances in the problem can be subdivided to provide answers to two broad
questions:
(a) What portion is attributable to not attaining a predetermined level of
volume or activity? When volume is measured in terms of sales, this
variance is called the sales-activity variance.
(b) What portion is attributable to non-volume effects? This variance is often
called the flexible-budget variance.

The existing performance report, which is based solely on a static budget, cannot
answer these questions clearly. It answers (a) partially, because it compares the
revenue achieved with the original targeted revenue. But the report fails to
answer (b). A more complete analysis follows:

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 322

Summary of Performance (in thousands)
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)
Actual =(1)-(3) Flexible =(3)-(5)
Results Budget
at Actual Flexible- for Actual Sales-
Activity Budget Sales Activity Static
Level Variances Activity Variances Budget
Net revenue $12,700 $ - $12,700 $300 U $13,000
Total variable costs 10,924 129U 10,795 255 F 11,050
Contribution margin $ 1,776 $129U $ 1,905 $ 45 U $ 1,950
Fixed costs 1,000 10U 990 - 990
Operating income $ 776 $139U $ 915 $ 45 U $ 960
U = Unfavorable

Column (4) focuses on the effects of sales volume. It shows that a $300,000
drop in sales activity is expected to cause a $45,000 decrease in contribution
margin and hence a $45,000 decrease in operating income.

Column (2) generally focuses on efficiency. Without a flexible budget,

operating inefficiencies cannot be isolated from the effects of changes in sales
activity. Cost control performance may be reported in more detail, where the
focus is on efficiency (in thousands):

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 323

 8-A2 (20-30 min.)
This analysis of flexible budget and static budget variances follows Exhibit 8-6.

Actual Results at Flexible Budget for

Actual Activity Level Actual Sales Activity Static Budget
(1) (2) (3)
Systems
consulting, $46,000 90 requests × $500 = 75 requests × $500 =
variable $45,000 $37,500
Flexible-budget Sales-Activity variance
variance (2)-(3)
(1) – (2) $45,000 - $37,500 =
$46,000 - $45,000 = $7,500 U
$1,000 U

Static budget variance (1)-(3)

$46,000 -$37,500 = $8,500 U

Systems
consulting, $78,000 $65,000 $65,000
fixed (given)
Flexible-budget Sales-Activity variance
variance (2)-(3)
(1) – (2) $65,000 - $65,000 =
$78,000 - $65,000 = -0-
$13,000 U
Static budget variance (1)-(3)
$78,000 - $65,000 =
$13,000 U
Note that the activity-level variance for fixed costs is always zero (as long as the activity
stays within the relevant range) because flexible- and static-budget fixed costs are always
the same.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 324

8-A3 (20 - 30 min.)

1. Direct materials: 5 lb. × $10.00 = $ 50.00

Direct labor: 10 hrs. × $25.00 = 250.00
Total $300.00

2. The flexible budget is based on actual output achieved, not scheduled or

budgeted output.

A B C
Flexible Budget:
Standard Input
Actual Cost Incurred: Quantities Allowed for
Actual Input Quantities Actual Input Quantities Outputs Achieved ×
× Actual Prices × Standard Prices Standard Prices
In general: $xxx $yyy $zzz
Price variance Quantity variance
(A - B) (B - C)
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)

Direct 3,100 lbs × $9.00 = 3,100 lbs × $10.00 = 525 units × 5 × $10.00
Materials $27,900 $31,000 = $26,250
Price variance Quantity variance
(A - B) = (B - C)
$27,900 - $31,000 = $31,000 - $26,250 =
$3,100 F $4,750 U
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)
$27,900 - $26,250 =
$1,650 U

A B C
Direct 5,500 hrs × $26.00 5,500 hrs × $25.00 525 units × 10 hrs ×
Labor = $143,000 = $137,500 $25.00 = $131,250
Price variance Quantity variance
(A - B) = (B - C) =
$143,000 - $137,500 = $137,500 - $131,250 =
$5,500 U $6,250 U
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)
$143,000 - $131,250 = $11,750 U

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 325

3. Among the possible explanations for the performance are:

(a) Were substandard materials used because they were cheaper, resulting in
higher waste than usual? (Note that the unfavorable quantity variance
more than offset the favorable price variance and resulted in a net
unfavorable materials variance.)

(b) Net savings in material costs may be undesirable if they cause inefficient
use of direct labor. It is possible that use of substandard materials led to
increased use of direct labor and the unfavorable direct labor quantity
variance.

(c) Direct labor is expensive. A wage rate that is about 4% above the
standard rate creates a significant dollar amount of direct-labor price
variance.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 326

8-B1 (15-20 min.)

1. ROBERT CAMPBELL TAX SERVICES

Summary Performance Report

Actual Flexible
Results Budget
at Actual Flexible for Actual Sales
Activity Budget Activity Activity Static
Level Variances Level Variances Budget
Physical units
(clients) 3,000 - 3,000 500F 3,500
Sales $1,080,000 $30,000F $1,050,000 $175,000U $1,225,000
Variable costs 920,000 20,000U 900,000 150,000F 1,050,000
Contribution
margin $ 160,000 $10,000 F $ 150,000 $ 25,000U $ 175,000
Fixed costs 159,500 9,500U 150,000 - 150,000
Operating income $ 500 $ 500 F $ 0 $ 25,000U $ 25,000

2. Static budget operating income $25,000

Variances:
Sales activity variance $ 25,000U
Flexible-budget variance 500F
Static-budget variance 24,500U
Actual operating income $ 500

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 327

8-B2 (20-30 min.)
1.
A B C
Flexible Budget:
Actual Cost Incurred: Standard Input
Actual Input Quantities Allowed
Quantities Actual Input Quantities for Outputs Achieved
× Actual Prices × Standard Prices × Standard Prices
Direct 116,000 lb × $7.50 = 116,000 lb × $7.00 = 14,400 units × 10 ×
Materials $870,000 $812,000 $7.00 = $1,008,000
Price variance Usage variance
(A - B) = (B - C)
$870,000 - $812,000 = $812,000 - $1,008,000 =
$58,000 U $196,000 F
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)
= $870,000 - $1,008,000 = $138,000F

Direct 29,000 hr × $12 = 29,000 hr × $14.00 = 14,400 units × 2 hr ×

Labor $348,000 $406,000 $14.00 = $403,200
Price variance Usage variance
(A - B) = (B - C)
$348,000 - $406,000 = $406,000 - $403,200 =
$58,000 F $2,800 U
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)
$348,000 - $403,200 = $55,200 F

2. Tradeoffs may have been made in each category. Materials more expensive than
standard may have been acquired with the hope of achieving less waste. Less-
skilled or less-experienced labor may have been used that cost less per hour, but
the less-skilled or less-experienced workers may have required more hours to do
the job. The overall effects on costs as measured by these variances were
favorable. However, management should also consider the effects of these
tradeoffs on quality, on-time delivery, customer satisfaction (and so on) that are
not measured in the variances.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 328

8-B3 (20-30 min.) If the total overhead incurred is $204,000, of which $138,000 is
fixed, then variable overhead was $204,000 - $138,000 = $66,000. The following
analysis should be helpful. All given items are designated by an asterisk (*).
Computations for the derived items are explained in items 1-4 below.

A B C
Flexible Budget:
Actual Overhead Costs Predicted Overhead Standard Driver Use
Incurred Based on Actual Driver Allowed for Output
Use × Standard Prices Achieved × Standard
Prices
Order- $66,000 $66,000 + $3,600* = $70,000 - $9,600 =
processing $69,600; $60,000
department-
variable 116,000 hr × 10* × 100,000 hr × 10* ×
overhead $.06* = $69,600 $.06* = 60,000
Spending variance Efficiency variance
$3,600* F $9,600 U
Flexible-budget variance (A - C)
$6,000* U

1. $9,600U. The efficiency variance is computed by subtracting the spending

variance from the flexible-budget variance, $6,000 U – ($3,600 F).

2. 116,000 hours. The actual hours can be computed by adding the variable
overhead spending variance to the actual variable overhead and then dividing the
result by $.60: ($66,000 + $3,600) ÷ $.60 = 116,000 hours. Alternatively, this
answer could be obtained by taking the answer in part (3) and adding 16,000
hours because the unfavorable efficiency variance represents 16,000 hours of
work ($9,600 ÷ $.60).

3. 100,000 hours. The standard hours allowed for output achieved can be computed
in one of two ways:

(a) Take the answer in part (2) and deduct 16,000 hours: 116,000 – 16,000 =
100,000 hours.

(b) Deduct the efficiency variance from the $69,600 and then divide the
result, $60,000, by $.60: ($69,600 - $9,600) ÷ $.60 = 100,000 hours.

4. Budgeted fixed overhead is equal to actual fixed overhead ($138,000) less the
unfavorable fixed overhead spending variance ($2,500 U), or $135,500.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 329

8-1 Favorable variances arise when actual costs are less than budgeted costs (or actual
revenue exceeds budgeted revenue). Unfavorable variances mean that actual costs are
greater than budgeted costs (or actual revenue falls short of budgeted revenue).

8-2 Yes. Flexible budgets are flexible only with respect to variable costs. By
definition, fixed costs do not change with the level of activity within the relevant range,
and therefore there is no “flex” in the fixed cost portion of a flexible budget.

8-3 No. A flexible budget adjusts costs as the level of activity changes, not as prices
change.

8-4 The use of flexible budgeting requires cost formulas or functions to predict what
costs should be at different levels of cost driver activity. It is essential to understand cost
behavior to develop these flexible-budget cost formulas.

8-5 No. A "flex" in a flexible budget generally refers to adjustments made because of
changes in volume. Activities that drive variable costs will therefore generate "flexes" in
the budget. Activities that do not drive changes in costs will not have a "flex."

8-6 No. Performance can be either effective or efficient, or both, or neither. For
example, the targeted sales level may be achieved or not (effectiveness), independent of
whether the actual level of operations minimized the amount of resources used
(efficiency).

8-7 A static budget variance is the difference between the originally planned (static
budget) amount and the actual amount. A flexible-budget variance is the difference
between the actual amount and the amount that is expected for the actual level of output
achieved.

8-8 Favorable and unfavorable variances do not necessarily mean good and bad
performance, respectively, and therefore rewards and punishments should not necessarily
follow favorable and unfavorable variances. Variances mean simply that actual results
differed from the standards. These differences may arise from inaccurate standards, or
they may be the result of factors that are beyond the control of management. Variances
should be a signal to ask the question "Why did the difference arise?" but they do not
automatically give the answer.

8-9 No. The primary function of a control system is explanation and understanding,
not placing blame.

8-10 Sales-activity variances are often the responsibility of sales or marketing

managers. However, if factors such as quality of product and meeting of delivery
schedule impact the volume of sales, production managers, who affect quality and
delivery, may also be responsible for the sales-activity variance.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 330

8-11 A perfection (or ideal) standard assumes that all imperfections and human errors
will be eliminated and thus is rarely attained. A currently attainable standard allows for
some imperfections and thus can be closely approached by keeping imperfections down
to the allowed level, and they can occasionally be surpassed by exceptional effort.

8-12 One approach sets standards just tight enough so that employees regard their
fulfillment as probable if they exert normal effort and diligence. The second approach
sets standards so tight that employees regard their fulfillment as possible though unlikely.

8-13 There is much room for measurement error when a standard is set.
Consequently, random fluctuations around the standard can really be conceived of as
defining the band of acceptable outcomes rather than as variances from a precise
standard. The standard is often the midpoint of the band of acceptable outcomes.

8-14 Price variances separate out the effects of deviations of actual price from the
standard price. Therefore, price variances should be computed even if prices are outside
of company control. This helps managers to better understand and measure production
performance by separating price effects from quantity effects. Following the usual
approach to computing price and quantity variances, the quantity variances are not
affected by deviations of price from the standard.

8-15 Some common causes of unfavorable quantity (or usage or efficiency) variances
are improper handling, poor quality of material, poor workmanship, changes in methods,
new workers, slow machines, breakdowns, and faulty designs.

8-16 Failure to meet price standards is often the responsibility of the purchasing
officer, but responsibility may be shared with the production manager when he or she has
frequent rush orders for materials that result in higher prices paid. Of course, market
conditions may be such that it is beyond the control of anyone in the company to attain
the price standard.

8-17 The variable overhead efficiency variance does not directly measure the
performance of the managers who are responsible for overhead, but rather the
performance of managers who control the cost driver for overhead. The variable
overhead efficiency variance indicates whether actual use of the cost driver was more or
less than the standard amount of the driver for the output achieved.

8-18 Overhead control techniques are different from direct material cost control
techniques because:

1. Cost drivers are generally more complex and less obvious.

2. Responsibility is shared among various people.
3. A large percentage of overhead costs may be fixed and/or joint in nature.
4. Overhead cannot be easily separated into quantity and price effects.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 331

8-19 The narrow interpretation of the unfavorable label is that, holding everything else
equal, revenue being $2,000 lower than planned has an unfavorable effect on profit.
However, the unfavorable label for the revenue variance does not necessarily indicate
that the decision to reduce revenue was incorrect. In this situation, the decision to lower
revenue by $2,000 results in higher profit because the $2,000 loss in revenue is more than
offset by the corresponding $2,500 difference in costs ($6,500 of costs to achieve $8,000
of revenue versus $4,000 of costs to achieve $6,000 of revenue).

8-20 The impact of changes in sales volume on profit depends on the amount of
variable versus fixed costs. If sales (revenues) drop 10%, the contribution margin drops
by 10% also, but fixed costs will not change (assuming the new sales volume remains in
the relevant range). With operating profit of $100 on sales of $1,000, total costs must
have been $900. Suppose half of those costs were fixed. Then, the contribution margin
would be $1,000 - $450 = $550. A 10% drop in sales would reduce contribution margin
(and profit) by 10% × $550 = $55, corresponding to a 55% reduction in profit.

8-21 Changes in production volume will affect variable costs but not fixed costs,
provided that the new production level remains within the relevant range. If production
volume increases by 10%, costs will increase by less than 10% if there are any fixed
costs. Suppose that half of the production costs for 100 units are fixed and half are
variable. That means that per unit variable costs are ($1,000 × .5) ÷ 100 = $5. Producing
an extra 10 units should cause an extra cost of 10 × $5 = $50, giving a total cost of
$1,050 for 110 units. The production manager should have a cost target of $1,050, not
$1,100.

8-22 If a purchasing manager saves money by paying less per pound than planned, we
want to make sure this savings did not come at the expense of quality. By examining the
material usage variance, we can see whether more than planned of the cheaper material
had to be used. Perhaps there was more scrap or waste because of using inferior
materials. One might also examine the labor usage variance. Inferior materials may also
be harder to handle, thus requiring additional labor time. Or, partially completed
products might have to be scrapped when defects are found, wasting not only the
materials put into the product but also the labor used up to the point it is scrapped.

8-23 Unfavorable variable-overhead efficiency variances arise when there is excess

usage of the cost driver used to apply the variable overhead. To know who is responsible
for the unfavorable variable-overhead efficiency variance we need to know the cost
driver for the variable overhead and who is responsible for controlling that cost driver. If
direct labor hours drives variable overhead, then the plant manager is responsible for the
variable-overhead efficiency variance. Why? Because he or she is responsible for
controlling use of the variable overhead cost-driver, direct labor hours.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 332

8-24 (5 min.)
Variable cost is $294,800 ÷ 44,000 units = $6.70 per unit
Budgeted cost = ($6.70 × 52,000) + $9,100 = $357,500

8-25 (10 min.)

Mileage 40,000 50,000 60,000
Fuel @ $.22 $ 8,800 $ 11,000 $13,200
Depreciation 6,600 6,600 6,600
Total $15,400 $17,600 $19,800

8-26 (10 min.) Answers are in italics.

Budget
Formula
per Unit Various Levels of Output

Units 10,000 11,000 12,000

Sales $19 $190,000 $209,000 $228,000

Variable costs:
Direct material $6.50 $65,000 $71,500 $78,000
Hand labor 4.40 $44,000 $48,400 $52,800
Fixed costs:
Depreciation 18,000 18,000 18,000
Salaries 33,000 33,000 33,000

8-27 (10-15 min.)

The manager's delight is unjustified. A more informative analysis is obtained
when a flexible budget is introduced:
Flexible- Sales
Actual Budget Flexible Activity Static
Costs Variance Budget Variance Budget
Units of product 5,300 - 5,300 2,100U 7,400*
Direct materials $ 49,900 $ 7,500U $ 42,400 $16,800F $ 59,200
Direct labor 39,200 2,100U 37,100 14,700F 51,800
Total $89,100 $9,600U $79,500 $31,500F $111,000
*$59,200 ÷ $8 = 7,400 or $51,800 ÷ $7 = 7,400
Note that the manager should have expected lower costs when actual volume was
2,100 units lower (about 28% lower) than the static budget. The flexible budget shows
these expected costs were $31,500 lower than in the static budget. However, the manager
was unable to bring the actual costs below the amounts in the flexible budget and spent
$9,600 more than the flexible budget amounts.

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 333

8-28 (10-15 min.)
A B C
Flexible Budget
Actual Results for Actual
at Actual Pounds of Static
Activity Level Activity Budget
Materials $177,000 650,000 lb × $.25 = 750,000 lb × $.25 =
support: (given) $162,500 $187,500
Flexible-budget Materials-activity
variance (A - B) variance (B - C)
$177,000 - $162,500 $162,500 - $187,500
= $14,500 U = $25,000 F
Static-budget variance (A - C)
$177,000-$187,500
= $10,500 F

8-29 (10-15 min.)

Actual Cost Flexible Budget:

Incurred: Actual Standard Input
Input Quantities Actual Input Quantities Allowed
× Actual Prices Quantities × for Outputs
Standard Prices Achieved × Standard
Prices

4,100 sq. yd 4,100 sq. yd. 3,700 sq. yds. ×

× B686 = × B680 = B680 =
B2,812,600 B2,788,000 B2,516,000

4,100 × (B686 – B680) = (4,100 – 3,700) × B680 =

Price variance, B24,600U Quantity variance, B272,000U

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 334

8-30 (15-20 min.)

The analytical framework showing only given items is:

Actual Hours Actual Hours Standard Hours

× Actual Price × Standard Price × Standard Price

1,780 hrs. 1,780 hrs. D hrs.

× Actual Price × $20.00 × $20.00
= $A = $B = $C
1,780 × (Actual price - $20.00) (1,780 – D) × $20.00
= Price variance, $1,157 U = Quantity variance, $E
Flexible-budget variance, $1,643 F

1. Given the price variance of $1,157 U and the actual hours of 1,780, the actual labor
rate will be $1,157 ÷ 1,780 hours = $.65 / hour higher than the standard rate. Therefore,
the actual labor rate per hour y = $20.00 + .65 = $20.65.

2. Items A, B, C, and D in the framework can now be completed as follows:

A = 1,780 hours × $20.65 per hour =36,757.
B = 1,780 hours × $20.00 per hour = 35,600.
E = Quantity variance = Flexible Budget variance – Price Variance
= 1,643 F – 1,157 U
= 2,800 F
C = 35,600 + quantity variance = 35,600 + 2,800 = 38,400.
D = 38,400 ÷ 20.00 = 1,920 standard hours allowed.

8-31 (10 min.)

Material quantity (usage) variance

= (Actual usage in kilos - Standard kilos) × Standard price
= (18,700 actual kilos - 19,500 standard kilos ) × $3.20
= $2,560, favorable

Labor quantity (usage) variance

= (Actual hours - Standard hours) × Standard price
= (67,100 actual hours - 66,300 standard hours) × $6
= $4,800, unfavorable

Copyright ©2014 Pearson Education, Inc., Publishing as Prentice Hall. 335

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county knew how completely successful it was. But to the girls it was a
trouble, if an advantage. Mrs. Worth studied their figures, their
complexions, and what she called their ‘hidiousiucrasies’—but she did not
study the hours that were convenient for them, or make allowance for their
other occupations. And she was a tyrant, if a beneficent one. So Rose had to
go, however loth. Lady Meadowlands was about to give a fête, a great
garden party, at which all ‘the best people’ were to be assembled. And a
new dress was absolutely necessary. Wouldn’t it do in the morning?’ she
pleaded. But Mrs. Worth was inexorable. And so it happened that her
mother had a quiet half-hour in which to interrogate Anne.
The drawing-room was on the side of the house overlooking the flower
garden; the windows, a great row of them, flush with the wall outside and
so possessing each a little recess of its own within, were all open, admitting
more damp than air, and a chilly freshness and smell of the earth instead of
the scents of the mignonette. There were two lamps at different ends of the
room, which did not light it very well: but Mrs. Mountford was economical.
Anne had lit the candles on the writing-table for her own use, and she was a
long way off the sofa on which her stepmother sat, with her usual tidy
basket of neatly-arranged wools beside her. A little time passed in unbroken
quiet, disturbed by nothing but the soft steady downfall of the rain through
the great open space outside, and the more distant sound of pattering upon
the trees. When Mrs. Mountford said ‘Anne,’ her stepdaughter did not hear
her at first. But there was a slight infraction of the air, and she knew that
something had been said.
‘Did you speak, mamma?’
‘I want to speak to you, Anne. Yes, I think I did say your name. Would
you mind coming here for a little? I want to say something to you while
Rose is away.’
Anne divined at once what it must be. And she was not unreasonable—it
was right that Mrs. Mountford should know: how could she help but know,
being the wife of one of the people most concerned? And the thing which
Anne chiefly objected to was that her stepmother knew everything about
her by a sort of back way, thus arriving at a clandestine knowledge not
honestly gained. It was not the stepmother that was to blame, but the father
and fate. She rose and went forward slowly through the partial light—
reluctant to be questioned, yet not denying that to ask was Mrs.
Mountford’s right.
‘I sent her away on purpose, Anne. She is too young. I don’t want her to
know any more than can be helped. My dear, I was very sorry to hear from
your father that you had got into that kind of trouble so soon.’
‘I don’t think I have got into any trouble,’ said Anne.
‘No, of course I suppose you don’t think so; but I have more experience
than you have, and I am sorry your mind should have been disturbed so
soon.’
‘Do you call it so very soon?’ said Anne. ‘I am twenty-one.’
‘So you are; I forgot. Well! but it is always too soon when it is not
suitable, my dear.’
‘It remains to be seen whether it is not suitable, mamma.’
‘My love! do you think so little of your father’s opinion? That ought to
count above everything else, Anne. A gentleman is far better able to form an
opinion of another gentleman than we are. Mr. Douglas, I allow, is good-
looking and well-bred. I liked him well enough myself; but that is not all—
you must acknowledge that is not half enough.’
‘My father seems to want a great deal less,’ said Anne; ‘all that he asks is
about his family and his money.’
 ‘Most important particulars, Anne, however romantic you may be; you
must see that.’
‘I am not romantic,’ said Anne, growing red, and resenting the
imputation, as was natural; ‘and I do not deny they are important details;
but not surely to be considered first as the only things worth caring for—
which is what my father does.’
‘What do you consider the things worth caring for, dear? Be reasonable.
Looks?’ said Mrs. Mountford, laying down her work upon her lap with a
benevolent smile. ‘Oh, Anne, my dear child, at your age we are always told
that beauty is skin-deep, but we never believe it. And I am not one that
would say very much in that respect. I like handsome people myself; but
dear, dear, as life goes on, if you have nothing but looks to trust to——!’
‘I assure you,’ said Anne, vehemently, succeeding after two or three
attempts to break in, ‘I should despise myself if I thought that beauty was
anything. It is almost as bad as money. Neither the one nor the other is
yourself.’
‘Oh, I would not go so far as that,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with
indulgence. ‘Beauty is a great deal in my opinion, though perhaps it is
gentlemen that think most about it. But, my dear Anne, you are a girl that
has always thought of duty. I will do you the justice to say that. You may
have liked your own way, but even to me, that have not the first claim upon
you, you have always been very good. I hope you are not going to be
rebellious now. You must remember that your father’s judgment is far more
mature than yours. He knows the world. He knows what men are.’
‘So long as he does not know—one thing,’ said Anne, indignantly, ‘what
can all that other information matter to me?’
‘And what is the one thing, dear?’ Mrs. Mountford said.
Anne did not immediately reply. She went to the nearest window and
closed it, for sheer necessity of doing something; then lingered, looking out
upon the rain and the darkness of the night.
‘Thank you, that is quite right,’ said her stepmother. ‘I did not know that
window was open. How damp it is, and how it rains! Anne, what is the one
thing? Perhaps I might be of some use if you would tell me. What is it your
father does not know?’
‘Me,’ said Anne, coming slowly back to the light. Her slight white figure
had the pose of a tall lily, so light, so firm, that its very fragility looked like
strength. And her face was full of the constancy upon which, perhaps, she
prided herself a little—the loyalty that would not give up a dog, as she said.
Mrs. Mountford called it obstinacy, of course. ‘But what does that matter,’
she added, with some vehemence, ‘when in every particular we are at
variance? I do not think as he does in anything. What he prizes I do not care
for—and what I prize——’
‘My dear, it is your father you are speaking of. Of course he must know
better than a young girl like you——’
‘Mamma, it is not his happiness that is involved—it is mine! and I am
not such a young girl—I am of age. How can he judge for me in what is to
be the chief thing in my life?’
‘Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford kindly, ‘this young man is almost a stranger
to you—you had never seen him a year ago. Is it really true, and are you
quite sure that this involves the happiness of your life?’
Anne made no reply. How otherwise? she said indignantly in her heart.
Was she a girl to deceive herself in such a matter—was she one to make
protestations? She held her head high, erecting her white throat more like a
lily than ever. But she said nothing. What was there to say? She could not
speak or tell anyone but herself what Cosmo was to her. The sensitive blood
was ready to mount into her cheeks at the mere breathing of his name.
Mrs. Mountford shook her head. ‘Oh, foolish children,’ she said, ‘you
are all the same. Don’t think you are the only one, Anne. When you are as
old as I am you will have learned that a father’s opinion is worth taking, and
that your own is not so infallible after all.’
‘I suppose,’ said Anne softly, ‘you are twice my age, mamma—that
would be a long time to wait to see which of us was right.’
‘I am more than twice your age,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with a little heat;
then suddenly changing her tone, ‘Well! so this is the new fashion we have
been hearing so much of. Turn round slowly that I may see if it suits you,
Rose.’
 CHAPTER VI.

GOOD-BYE.

Next day was one of those crowning days of summer which seem the
climax, and at the same time the conclusion, of the perfect year. From
morning till night there was no shadow upon it, no threatening of a cloud,
no breath of unfriendly air. The flowers in the Mount gardens blazed from
the level beds in their framework of greenness, the great masses of summer
foliage stood out against the soft yet brilliant sky; every outline was round
and distinct, detaching itself in ever-varying lines, one curve upon another.
Had the weather been less perfect their distinctness would have been
excessive and marred the unity of the landscape, but the softness of the
summer air harmonised everything in sight and sound alike. The voices on
the terrace mingled in subtle musical tones at intervals; and, though every
branch of the foliage was perfect in itself, yet all were melodiously
mingled, and belonged to each other. On the sea-shore and among the hills
distance seemed annihilated, and every outline pressed upon the eye, too
bright, too near for pleasure, alarming the weather-wise. But here, so
warmly inland, in a landscape so wealthy and so soft, the atmosphere did
not exaggerate, it only brightened. It was the end of August, and changes
were preparing among the elements. Next day it might be autumn with a
frost-touch somewhere, the first yellow leaf; but to-day it was full summer,
a meridian more rich than that of June, yet still meridian, full noon of the
seasons.

Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;

Demain nous aurons du pain noir:

Anne woke up this heavenly morning saying these words to herself. It had
rained half the night through, and the morning had risen pale, exhausted as
with all this weeping: but after awhile had thought better of it, and sworn to
have, ere summer ended, one other resplendent day. Then the sun had got
up to his work like a bridegroom, eternal image, in a flush of sacred pride
and joy. People said to each other ‘What a lovely day!’ Though it had been
a fine summer, and the harvest had been got in with the help of many a lusty
morning and blazing afternoon, yet there was something in this that touched
the general heart; perhaps because it was after the rain, perhaps because
something in the air told that it was the last, that Nature had surpassed
herself, and after this was capable of nothing further. As a matter of fact,
nobody could do anything for the delight of the exquisite morning. First one
girl stole out, and then another, through the garden, upon which the
morning sun was shining; then Mrs. Mountford sailed forth under the
shelter of her parasol. Even she, though she was half ashamed of herself,
being plump, had put on, dazzled by the morning, a white gown. ‘Though I
am too old for white,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Not too old, but a little too
stout, ‘m,’ said Mrs. Worth, with that ferocious frankness which we have all
to submit to from our maids. None of the three reappeared again till the
luncheon-bell rang, so demoralised were they. Anne, if truth must be told,
went towards the Beeches: ‘Il nous reste un gâteau de fête,’ she sang to
herself under her breath, ‘Demain nous aurons du pain noir.’
The same thing happened at the Rectory: even the rector himself came
out, wandering, by way of excusing himself for the idleness, about the
flowerbeds. ‘The bedding-out plants have done very well this year,’ he said;
but he was not thinking of the bedding-out plants any more than the young
men were thinking of their cigars. In their minds there was that same sense
of the one bit of cake remaining to eat which was in Anne’s song. Charley,
who had not the cake, but was only to stand by and assist while his friend
ate it, was sympathetically excited, yet felt a little forlorn satisfaction in the
approaching resumption of the pain noir. He was never to get anything
better, it appeared; but it would be pleasanter fare when the munching of the
gâteau was over. And Douglas stole off to consume that last morsel when
the curate, reluctantly, out of the sweetness of the morning, went off to his
schools. Under the Beeches the day was like a fresh bit out of Paradise. If
Adam and Eve are only a fable, as the scientific gentlemen say, what a poet
Moses was! Eden has never gone out of fashion to this day. The two under
the trees, but for her muslin and his tweed, were, over again, the primæval
pair—and perhaps the serpent was about too: but neither Eve had seen it,
nor Adam prepared that everlasting plea of self-defence which has been
handed down through all his sons. This was how the charmed hours stole
on, and the perfection of summer passed through the perfection of noon; so
many perfections touching each other! a perfect orb of loveliness and
happiness, with that added grace which makes perfection more perfect, the
sense of incompleteness—the human crown of hope. All the time they were
thinking of the something better, something sweeter, that was to come.
‘Will there ever be such another perfect day?’ she said, in a wonder at the
new discovered bliss with which she was surrounded. ‘Yes, the next,’ he
said, ‘on which we shall not have to part.’ To be sure: there was the parting;
without that conclusion, perhaps, this hour would not have been so
exquisite: but it was still some hours off, thank heaven!
After luncheon the chairs were carried out to the green terrace where the
shadow of the limes fell. The limes got in the way of the sun almost as soon
as he began to descend, and threw the most delicious dancing shadow over
the grass—a shadow that was quite effectual, and kept the lawn as cool as
in the middle of a forest, but which was in itself a lovely living thing, in soft
perpetual motion, every little twig and green silken leaf contributing its
particular canopy, and flinging down a succession of little bobs and curtseys
with every breath of air that blew. ‘Everybody will be out to-day, and I
daresay we shall have a great many visitors. Tell Saymore he may bring out
the big table,’ said Mrs. Mountford. She liked to feel that her house was the
chief house in the neighbourhood, the place to which everybody came. Mrs.
Mountford had regretfully relinquished by this time her white gown. We all
cling to our white gowns, but when you are stout, it must be acknowledged
the experiment is rash. She had not been able to get Mrs. Worth’s candid
criticism out of her mind all the morning. ‘Do I look very stout, Rose?’ she
had said, in an unconsciously ingratiating tone. And Rose was still more
entirely impartial than Worth. She threw a careless glance at her mother.
‘You do look fat, mamma!’ she said. It was hard upon the poor lady; she
changed it, with a sigh, for her darkest silk. ‘Not black, Worth,’ she said
faintly. ‘If I had my way, ‘m,’ said Worth, ‘I’d dress you always in black.
There is nothing like it when one gets to a certain time of life.’ It was under
the influence of this sobering douche that Mrs. Mountford came out again,
accompanied by Saymore with her workbasket. It was put down upon the
table, a dazzling bit of colour. ‘But I really don’t feel inclined to work. It is
too fine to work,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘What is that you are singing for
ever, Anne? I have heard you at it all day.’

Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;

Demain nous aurons du pain noir.
 Anne sang without changing colour, though her heart was beating; she
had become too breathless for conversation. When would he come for the
farewell, and what would her father say? Would he hear of it and come out?
What was to happen? She sat very still in her basket-chair, with all the lime
leaves waving over her, letting in stray gleams of sunshine that ornamented
her as with lines of jewels here and there.
Then, after an interval, two dark figures were seen upon the whiteness
and unsheltered light of the road through the park. ‘There are the Ashley
boys,’ said Rose. ‘Anne, you will be obliged to play to-day.’
‘The Ashley boys! Now that Charley is ordained, you should speak with
more respect,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne looked up, and her heart seemed
to stand still—only two of them! But she soon satisfied herself that it was
not Cosmo that was the defaulter; she sat, not saying anything, scarcely
daring to breathe. The moment had come.
Willie Ashley had not regarded with much satisfaction the reconciliation
which he found to his great amazement had taken place while he was out in
the rain. Indeed the attitude of his mind had been nothing less than one of
disgust, and when he found next day that Douglas was setting out arm-in-
arm with the curate, and almost more confidential than before, to walk to
Mount, his impatience rose to such a point that he flung off altogether. ‘Two
may be company, but three is none,’ he said to his brother. ‘I thought you
had a little more spirit; I’m not going to Mount: if you can see yourself cut
out like that, I can’t. I’ll walk up as far as the Woodheads’; I daresay they’ll
be very glad to get up a game there.’ This was how there were only two
figures on the road. They were very confidential, and perhaps the curate
was supported more than he himself was aware by the certainty that his
friend was going away that night. Henceforward the field would be clear. It
was not that he had any hope of supplanting Cosmo in his turn, as he had
been supplanted; but still to have him away would be something. The black
bread is wholesome fare enough when there is not some insolent happiness
in the foreground insisting upon devouring before you its bunches of cake.
‘I declare,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘there is that Mr. Douglas with Charley
Ashley! What am I to do? I am sure it is not Willie—he is taller and bigger,
and has a different appearance altogether. You cannot expect me, Anne, to
meet anyone whom papa disapproves. What shall I do? Run, Rose, and tell
Saymore; but of course Charley will not knock at the door like an ordinary
visitor—he will come straight here. I have always thought these
familiarities should not have been permitted. They will come straight here,
though they know he has been sent away and forbidden the house.’
‘He has never been forbidden the house,’ cried Anne indignantly. ‘I
hope, mamma, you will not be so uncivil as to refuse to say good-bye to Mr.
Douglas. He is going away.’
‘Forbidden the house!’ cried Rose, her eyes opening up like two great
O’s. ‘Then it is true!’
‘You had better go away at least, if I must stay,’ said Mrs. Mountford in
despair. ‘Rosie, run indoors and stay in the drawing-room till he is gone. It
would be in far better taste, Anne, and more dutiful, if you were to go too.’
Anne did not say a word, partly, no doubt, in determined resistance, but
partly because just then her voice had failed her, the light was swimming in
her eyes, and the air seemed to be full of pairs of dark figures approaching
from every different way.
‘Run indoors! why should I?’ said Rose. ‘He can’t do any harm to me;
besides, I like Mr. Douglas. Why shouldn’t he come and say good-bye? It
would be very uncivil of him if he didn’t, after being so much here.’
‘That is just what I am always saying; you have them constantly here,
and then you are surprised when things happen,’ cried Mrs. Mountford,
wringing her hands. ‘Anne, if you have any feeling you ought to take your
sister away.’
Rose’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. ‘Was it me he was in love with,
then?’ she asked, not without reason. But by this time it was too late for
anyone to run away, as the young men were already making their way
across the flower-garden, and could see every movement the ladies made.
‘Sit down, sit down, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘and for
heaven’s sake let us have no scene; look at least as if it were a common call
and meant nothing—that is the only thing to do now.’ ‘How d’ye do, how
d’ye do, Charley,’ she said, waving her hand in friendly salutation: ‘was
there ever such a lovely day? Come and sit down; it is too fine for a game.
Is that Mr. Douglas you have with you? I was quite blinded with the sun
this morning, I can’t get it out of my eyes. How do you do?—you will
excuse my looking surprised; I thought I heard that you had gone away.’
‘Not yet,’ he said; ‘I hope you did not think me so little grateful for all
your kindness as not to make my acknowledgments before leaving the
parish. I have lingered longer than I ought to have done, but every
happiness must come to an end, and I am bound for Beedon this afternoon
to catch the Scotch mail to-night.’
Mrs. Mountford made him a little bow, by way of showing that her
interest in this was no more than politeness demanded, and returned to the
curate, to whom she was not generally so gracious. ‘I hope your father is
well,’ she said; ‘and Willie, where is Willie? It is not often he fails. When
we saw you crossing the park just now I made sure it was Willie that was
with you. I suppose we shall not have him much longer. He should not
disappoint his friends like this.’
‘I fear,’ said Douglas (‘thrusting himself in again; so ill-bred, when he
could see I meant to snub him,’ Mrs. Mountford said), ‘that Willie’s absence
is my fault. He likes to have his brother to himself, and I don’t blame him.
However, I am so soon to leave the coast clear! If anything could have
made it more hard to turn one’s back upon Mount it would be leaving it on
such a day. Fancy going from this paradise of warmth and sunshine to the
cold North!’
‘To Scotland?’ cried Rose; ‘that’s just what I should like to do. You may
call this paradise if you like, but it’s dull. Paradise would be dull always,
don’t you think, with nothing happening. To be sure, there’s Lady
Meadowlands’ fête; but one knows exactly what that will be—at least,
almost exactly,’ Rose added, brightening a little, and feeling that a little
opening was left for fate.
‘Let us hope it will be as different as possible from what you expect. I
have known garden-parties turn out so that one was not in the least like
another,’ said Douglas smilingly, accepting the transfer to Rose which Mrs.
Mountford’s too apparent snub made necessary. Anne, for her part, did not
say a word; she sat quite still in the low basket-chair, scarcely venturing to
look up, listening to the tones of his voice and the smile which seemed to
pervade his words with that strange half-stunned, half-happy sensation
which precedes a parting. Yes, it was happiness still to feel him there, and
recognise every distinctive sound of the voice which had awoke her heart.
Was there no way of stopping this flying moment, arresting it, so that it
should last, or coming to an end in it, which is the suggested sentiment of
all perfection? She sat as in a dream, longing to make it last, yet impatient
that it should be over; wondering how it was to end, and whether any words
more important than these might pass between them still. They had taken
farewell of each other under the Beeches. This postscript was almost more
than could be borne—intolerable, yet sweet. The voices went on, while the
scene turned round and round with Anne, the background of the flowers
confusing her eyes, and the excitement mounting to her head. At last, before
they had been a moment there, she thought—though it was half an hour—
the dark figures had risen up again and hands were being held out. Then she
felt her dress twitched, and ‘Let us walk to the end of the garden with
them,’ said Rose. This made a little commotion, and Anne in her dream felt
Mrs. Mountford’s expostulation—‘Girls!’ in a horrified undertone, ‘what
can you be thinking of? Rosie, are you crazy? Anne!’
This last was almost in a shriek of excitement. But Rose was far too
much used to her own way to pay any attention. ‘Come along,’ she said,
linking her fingers in her sister’s. Anne, who was the leader in everything,
followed for the first time in her life.
The garden was sweet with all manner of autumn flowers, banks of
mignonette and heliotrope perfuming the air, and red geraniums blazing in
the sunshine—all artificial in their formal beds, just as this intercourse was
artificial, restrained by the presence of spectators and the character of the
scene. By-and-by, however, Rose untwined her hand from her sister’s.
‘There is no room to walk so many abreast; go on with Mr. Douglas, Anne;
I have something to say to Charley,’ the girl cried. She was curious, tingling
to her fingers’ ends with a desire to know all about it. She turned her round
eyes upon Charley with an exciting look of interrogation as soon as the
other pair had gone on before. Poor Ashley had drooped his big head; he
would have turned his back if he could to give them the benefit of this last
moment, but he felt that he could not be expected not to feel it. And as for
satisfying the curiosity of this inquisitive imp, whose eyes grew bigger and
bigger every moment! he dropped his nice brown beard upon his bosom,
and sighed, and slightly shook his head. ‘Tell me what it means, or I’ll tell
mamma you’re helping them,’ whispered Rose.
‘Can’t you see what it means?’ said the curate, with a glance, she
thought, of contempt. What did she know about it? A blush of humiliation at
her own ignorance flew over Rose.
‘I owe your little sister something for this,’ said Douglas, under his
breath. ‘Once more we two against the world, Anne!’
 ‘Not against the world: everything helps us, Cosmo. I did not think I
could even venture to look at you, and now we can say good-bye again.’
His fingers twined into hers among the folds of her gown, as Rose’s had
done a minute before. They could say good-bye again, but they had no
words. They moved along together slowly, not walking that they knew of,
carried softly as by a wave of supreme emotion; then, after another
moment, Anne felt the landscape slowly settling, the earth and the sky
getting back into their places, and she herself coming down by slow
gyrations to earth again. She was standing still at the corner of the garden,
with once more two dark figures upon the white road, but this time not
approaching—going away.
‘Tell me about it, tell me all about it, Anne. I did it on purpose; I wanted
to see how you would behave. You just behaved exactly like other people,
and shook hands with him the same as I did. I will stand your friend with
papa and everybody if you will tell me all about it, Anne.’
Mrs. Mountford also was greatly excited; she came sailing down upon
them with her parasol expanded and fanning herself as she walked. ‘I never
had such a thing to do,’ she said; ‘I never had such an awkward encounter in
my life. It is not that I have any dislike to the man, he has always been very
civil; though I must say, Anne, that I think, instead of coming, it would have
been better taste if he had sent a note to say good-bye. And if you consider
that I had not an idea what to say to him! and that I was in a state of mind
all the time, saying to myself, “Goodness gracious! if papa should suddenly
walk round the corner, what should we all do?” I looked for papa every
moment all the time. People always do come if there is any special reason
for not wanting them. However, I hope it is all over now, and that you will
not expose us to such risks any more.’
Anne made no reply to either of her companions. She stole away from
them as soon as possible, to subdue the high beating of her own heart, and
come down to the ordinary level. No, she was not likely to encounter any
such risks again; the day was over and with it the last cake of the feast: the
black bread of every day was all that now furnished forth the tables. A kind
of dull quiet fell upon Mount and all the surrounding country. The clouds
closed round and hung low. People seemed to speak in whispers. It was a
quiet that whispered of fate, and in which the elements of storm might be
lurking. But still it cannot be said that the calm was unhappy. The light had
left the landscape, but only for the moment. The banquet was over, but there
were fresh feasts to come. Everything fell back into the old conditions, but
nothing was as it had been. The world was the same, yet changed in every
particular. Without any convulsion, or indeed any great family disturbance,
how did this happen unsuspected? Everything in heaven and earth was
different, though all things were the same.
 CHAPTER VII.

CROSS-EXAMINATION.

The change that is made in a quiet house in the country when the chief
source of life and emotion is closed for one or other of the inhabitants is
such a thing as ‘was never said in rhyme.’ There may be nothing tragical,
nothing final about it, but it penetrates through every hour and every
occupation. The whole scheme of living seems changed, although there may
be no change in any habit. It is, indeed, the very sameness and unity of the
life, the way in which every little custom survives, in which the feet follow
the accustomed round, the eyes survey the same things, the very same
words come to the lips that make the difference so palpable. This was what
Anne Mountford felt now. To outward seeming her existence was absolutely
as before. It was not an exciting life, but it had been a happy one. Her mind
was active and strong, and capable of sustaining itself. Even in the warm
and soft stagnation of her home, her life had been like a running stream
always in movement, turning off at unexpected corners, flowing now in one
direction, now another, making unexpected leaps and variations of its own.
She had the wholesome love of new things and employments which keeps
life fresh; and there had scarcely been a week in which she had not had
some new idea or other, quickly copied and turned into matter-of-fact prose
by her little sister. This had made Mount lively even when there was
nothing going on. And for months together nothing did go on at Mount. It
was not a great country house filled with fashionable visitors in the autumn
and winter, swept clean of all its inhabitants in spring. The Mountfords
stayed at home all the year round, unless it were at the fall of the leaf, when
sometimes they would go to Brighton, sometimes at the very deadest season
to town. They had nobody to visit them except an occasional old friend
belonging to some other county family, who understood the kind of life and
lived the same at home. On these occasions if the friend were a little
superior they would ask Lord and Lady Meadowlands to dinner, but if not
they would content themselves with the clergymen of the two neighbouring
parishes, and the Woodheads, whose house was not much more than a villa.
Lately, since the girls grew up, the ‘game’ in the afternoon which brought
young visitors to the house in summer had added to the mild amusements of
this life; but the young people who came were always the same, and so
were the old people in the village, who had to be visited, and to have
flannels prepared for them against Christmas, and their savings taken care
of. When a young man ‘went wrong,’ or a girl got into trouble, it made the
greatest excitement in the parish. ‘Did you hear that Sally Lawson came
home to her mother on Saturday, sent away from her place at a moment’s
notice?’ or: ‘Old Gubbins’s boy has enlisted. Did you ever hear anything so
sad—the one the rector took so much pains with, and helped on so in his
education?’ It was very sad for the Gubbinses and Lawsons, but it was a
great godsend to the parish. And when Lady Meadowlands’ mother, old
Lady Prayrey Poule, went and married, actually married at sixty, it did the
very county, not to speak of those parishes which had the best right to the
news, good. This was the way in which life passed at Mount. And hitherto
Anne had supplemented and made it lively with a hundred pursuits of her
own. Even up to the beginning of August, when Mr. Douglas, who had left
various reminiscences behind him of his Christmas visit, came back—
having enjoyed himself so much on the previous occasion, as he said—
Anne had continued in full career of those vigorous fancies which kept her
always interested. She had sketched indefatigably all the spring and early
summer, growing almost fanatical about the tenderness of the shadows and
the glory of the lights. Then finding the cottages, which were so
picturesque, and figured in so many sketches, to be too wretched for
habitation, though they were inhabited, she had rushed into building, into
plans, and elevations, and measurements, which it was difficult to force Mr.
Mountford’s attention to, but which were evidently a step in the right
direction. But on Douglas’s second arrival these occupations had been
unconsciously intermitted, they had been pushed aside by a hundred little
engagements which the Ashleys had managed to make for the entertainment
of their friend. There had been several pic-nics, and a party at the rectory—
the first since Mrs. Ashley’s death—and a party at the Woodheads’, the only
other people in the parish capable of entertaining. Then there had been an
expedition to the Castle, which the Meadowlands, on being informed that
Charley Ashley’s friend was anxious to see it, graciously combined with a
luncheon and a ‘game’ in the afternoon. And then there was the game at
Mount on all the other afternoons. Who could wonder, as Mrs. Mountford
said, that something had come of it? The young men had been allowed to
come continually about the house. No questions had been asked, no
conditions imposed upon them. ‘Thou shalt not make love to thy
entertainer’s daughter’ had not been written up, as it ought to have been, on
the lodge. And now, all this was over. Like a scene at the theatre, opening
up, gliding off with nothing but a little jar of the carpentry, this momentous
episode was concluded and the magician gone. And Anne Mountford
returned to the existence—which was exactly as it had been of old.
The other people did not see any difference in it; and to her the
wonderful thing was that there was no difference in it. She had been in
paradise, caught up, and had seen unspeakable things; but now that she had
dropped down again, though for a moment the earth seemed to jar and
tingle under her feet as they came in contact with it, there was no
difference. Her plans were there just the same, and the question still to settle
about how far the pigsty must be distant from the house; and old Saymore
re-emerged to view making up his bouquets for the vases, and holding his
head on one side as he looked at them, to see how they ‘composed;’ and
Mrs. Worth, who all this time had been making dresses and trying different
shades to find out what would best set off Miss Rose’s complexion. They
had been going on like the figures on the barrel-organ, doing the same thing
all the time—never varying or changing. Anne looked at them all with a
kind of doleful amusement, gyrating just in the old way, making the same
little bobs and curtseys. They had no want of interest or occupation, always
moving quite contentedly to the old tunes, turning round and round. Mr.
Mountford sat so many hours in his business-room, walked one day, rode
the next for needful exercise, sat just so long in the drawing-room in the
evening. His wife occupied herself an hour every morning with the cook,
took her wool-work at eleven, and her drive at half-past two, except when
the horses were wanted. Anne came back to it all, with a little giddiness
from her expedition to the empyrean, and looked at the routine with a
wondering amusement. She had never known before how like clockwork it
was. Now her own machinery, always a little eccentric, declined to
acknowledge that key: some sort of new motive power had got into her,
which disturbed the action of the other. She began again with a great many
jerks and jars, a great many times: and then would stop and look at all the
others in their unconscious dance, moving round and round, and laugh to
herself with a little awe of her discovery. Was this what the scientific people
meant by the automatic theory, she wondered, being a young woman who
read everything; but then in a law which permitted no exceptions, how was
it that she herself had got out of gear?
Rose, who followed her sister in everything, wished very much to follow
her in this too. She had always managed to find out about every new
impulse before, and catch the way of it, though the impulse itself was
unknown to her. She gave Anne no rest till she had ascertained about this
too. ‘Tell us what it is like,’ she said, with a hundred repetitions. ‘How did
you first find out that he cared for you? What put it into your head? Was it
anything he said that made you think that? As it is probably something that
one time or another will happen to me too, I think it is dreadful of you not
to tell me. Had you never found it out till he told you? and what did he say?
Did he ask you all at once if you would marry him? or did it all come on by
degrees?’
‘How do you think I can tell?’ said Anne; ‘it is not a thing you can put
into words. I think it all came on by degrees.’
But this, though it was her own formula, did not satisfy Rose. ‘I am sure
you could tell me a great deal more if you only would,’ she cried; ‘what did
he say? Now, that you can’t help remembering; you must know what he
said. Did he tell you he was in love with you, or ask you straight off to
marry him? You can’t have forgotten that—it is not so very long ago.’
‘But, Rosie, I could not tell you. It is not the words, it is not anything
that could be repeated. A woman should hear that for the first time,’ said
Anne, with shy fervour, turning away her head to hide the blush, ‘when it is
said to herself.’
‘A woman! Then you call yourself a woman now? I am only a girl; is
that one of the things that show?’ asked Rose, gravely, in pursuit of her
inquiry. ‘Well, then, you ought surely to let me know what kind of a thing it
is. Are you so very fond of him as people say in books? are you always
thinking about him? Anne, it is dreadfully mean of you to keep it all to
yourself. Tell me one thing: when he said it first, did he go down upon his
knees?’
‘What nonsense you are talking!’ said Anne, with a burst of laughter.
Then there rose before her in sweet confusion a recollection of various
moments in which Rose, always matter-of-fact, might have described her
lover as on his knees. ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ she said, ‘and I
can’t tell you anything about it. I don’t know myself, Rosie; it was all like a
dream.’
‘It is you who are talking nonsense,’ said Rose. ‘How could it be like a
dream? In a dream you wake up and it is all over; but it is not a bit over
with you. Well, then, after, how did it feel, Anne? Was he always telling
you you were pretty? Did he call you “dear,” and “love,” and all that sort of
thing? It would be so very easy to tell me—and I do so want to know.’
‘Do you remember, Rose,’ said Anne, with a little solemnity, ‘how we
used to wish for a brother? We thought we could tell him everything, and
ask him questions as we never could do to papa, and yet it would be quite
different from telling each other. He would know better; he would be able to
tell us quantities of things, and yet he would understand what we meant
too.’
‘I remember you used to wish for it,’ said Rose, honestly, ‘and that it
would have been such a very good thing for the entail.’
‘Then,’ said Anne, with fervour, ‘it is a little like that—like what we
thought that would be. One feels that one’s heart is running over with things
to say. One wants to tell him everything, what happened when one was a
little girl, and all the nonsense that has ever been in one’s mind. I told him
even about that time I was shut up in the blue room, and how frightened I
was. Everything! it does not matter if it is a trifle. One knows he will not
think it a trifle. Exactly—at least almost exactly, like what it would be to
have a brother—but yet with a difference too,’ Anne added, after a pause,
blushing, she could scarcely tell why.
‘Ah!’ said Rose, with great perspicacity, ‘but the difference is just what I
want to know.’
The oracle, however, made no response, and in despair the pertinacious
questioner changed the subject a little. ‘If you will not tell me what he said,
nor what sort of a thing it is, you may at least let me know one thing—what
are you going to do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Anne, softly. She stood with her hands clasped before
her, looking with some wistfulness into the blueness of the distant air, as if
into the future, shaking her head a little, acknowledging to herself that she
could not see into it. ‘Nothing—so far as I know.’
‘Nothing! are you going to be in love, and engaged, and all that, and yet
do nothing? I know papa will not consent—mamma told me. She said you
would have to give up everything if you married him; and that it would be a
good thing for——’
Here Rose paused, gave her head a little shake to banish the foolish
words with which she had almost betrayed the confidence of her mother’s
communication, and reddened with alarm to think how near she had been to
letting it all out.
‘I am not going to——marry,’ said Anne, in spite of herself, a little
coldly, though she scarcely knew why, ‘if that is what you want to know.’
‘Then what,’ said Rose, majestically, ‘do you mean to do?’
The elder sister laughed a little. It was at the serious pertinacity of her
questioner, who would not take an answer. ‘I never knew you so curious
before,’ she said. ‘One does not need to do anything all at once——’
‘But what are you going to do?’ said Rose. ‘I never knew you so dull,
Anne. Dear me, there are a great many things to do besides getting married.
Has he just gone away for good, and is there an end of it? Or is he coming
back again, or going to write to you, or what is going to happen? I know it
can’t be going to end like that; or what was the use of it at all?’ the girl said,
with some indignation. It was Rose’s office to turn into prose all Anne’s
romancings. She stopped short as they were walking, in the heat of
indignant reason, and faced her sister, with natural eloquence, as all
oratorical talkers do.
‘It is not going to end,’ said Anne, a shade of sternness coming over her
face. She did not pause even for a moment, but went on softly with her
abstracted look. Many a time before in the same abstraction had she
escaped from her sister’s questions; but Rose had never been so persistent
as now.
‘If you are not going to do anything, and it is not to end, I wonder what
is going to happen,’ said Rose. ‘If it were me, I should know what I was to
do.’
They were walking up and down on the green terrace where so many
games had been played. It was getting almost too dark for the lime avenue
when their talk had begun. The day had faded so far that the red of the
geraniums had almost gone out; and light had come into the windows of the
drawing-room, and appeared here and there over the house. The season had
changed all in a day—a touch of autumn was in the air, and mist hung in all
the hollows. The glory of the year was over; or so at least Anne thought.
 ‘And another thing,’ said Rose; ‘are you going to tell anybody? Mamma
says I am not to tell; but do you think it is right to go to the Meadowlands’
party, and go on talking and laughing with everybody just the same, and
you an engaged girl? Somebody else might fall in love with you! I don’t
think it is a right thing to do.’
‘People have not been in such a hurry to fall in love with me,’ said Anne;
‘but, Rose, I don’t think this is a subject that mamma would think at all
suited for you.’
‘Oh, mamma talked to me about it herself; she said she wished you
would give it up, Anne. She said it never could come to anything, for papa
will never consent.’
‘Papa may never consent; but yet it will come to something,’ said Anne,
with a gleam in her eyes. ‘That is enough, Rose; that is enough. I am going
in, whatever you may do.’
‘But, Anne! just one thing more; if papa does not consent, what can you
do? Mamma says he could never afford to marry if you had nothing, and
you would have nothing if papa refused. It is only your money that you
would have to marry on; and if you had no money—— So what could you
do?’
‘I wish, when mamma speaks of my affairs, she would speak to me,’ said
Anne, with natural indignation. She was angry and indignant; and the words
made, in spite of herself, a painful commotion within her. Money! what had
money to do with it? She had felt the injustice, the wrong of her father’s
threat; but it had not occurred to her that this could really have any effect
upon her love; and though she had been annoyed to find that Cosmo would
not treat the subject with seriousness, or believe in the gravity of Mr.
Mountford’s menace, still she had been entirely satisfied that his apparent
carelessness was the right way for him to consider it. He thought it of no
importance, of course. He made jokes about it; laughed at it; beguiled her
out of her gravity on the subject. Of course! what was it to him whether she
was rich or poor; what did Cosmo care? So long as she loved him, was not
that all he was thinking of? What would she have minded had she been told
that he had nothing? Not one straw—not one farthing! But when this little
prose personage, with her more practical views of the question, rubbed
against Anne, there did come to her, quite suddenly, a little enlightenment.
It was like one chill, but by no means depressing, ray of daylight bursting in
through a crevice into the land of dreams. If he had no money, and she no
money, what then? Then, notwithstanding all generosity and nobleness of
affection, money certainly would have something to do with it. It would
count among the things to be taken into consideration; count dolefully, in so
far as it would keep them apart; yet count with stimulating force as a
difficulty to be surmounted, an obstacle to be got the better of. When Mrs.
Mountford put her head out of the window, and called them to come in out
of the falling dews, Anne went upstairs very seriously, and shut the door of
her room, and sat down in her favourite chair to think it out. Fathers and
mothers are supposed to have an objection to long engagements; but girls,
at all events at the outset of their career, do not entertain the same objection.
Anne was still in the dreamy condition of youthful rapture, transported out
of herself by the new light that had come into the world, so that the
indispensable sequence of marriage did not present itself to her as it does to
the practical-minded. It was a barrier of fact with which, in the meantime,
she had nothing to do. She was not disappointed or depressed, because that
was not the matter in question. It would come in time, no doubt, as the
afternoon follows the morning, and autumn summer, but who would change
the delights of the morning for the warmer, steady glory of three o’clock?
though that also is very good in its way. She was quite resigned to the
necessity of waiting, and not being married all at once. The contingency
neither alarmed nor distressed her. Its immediate result was one which,
indeed, most courses of thought produced in her mind at the present
moment. If I had but thought, of that, she said to herself, before he went
away! She would have liked to talk over the money question with Cosmo;
to discuss it in all its bearings; to hear him say how little it mattered, and to
plan how they could do without it; not absolutely without it, of course; but
Anne’s active mind leaped at once at the thought of those systems of
domestic economy which would be something quite new to study, which
had not yet tempted her, but which would now have an interest such as no
study ever had. And, on his side, there could be no doubt that the effort
would be similar; in all likelihood even now (if he had thought of it) he was
returning with enthusiasm to his work, saying to himself, ‘I have Anne to
work for; I have my happiness to win.’ ‘He could never afford to marry if
you had nothing. It is only your money that you could marry on; and if you
had no money, what could you do?’ Anne smiled to herself at Rose’s
wisdom; nay, laughed in the silence, in the dark, all by herself, with an
outburst of private mirth. Rose—prose, she said to herself, as she had said
often before. How little that little thing knew! but how could she know any
better, being so young, and with no experience? The thrill of high
exhilaration which had come to her own breast at the thought of this
unperceived difficulty—the still higher impulse that no doubt had been
given to Cosmo, putting spurs to his intellect, making impossibilities
possible—a child like Rose could not understand those mysteries. By-and-
by Anne reminded herself that, as the love of money was the root of all evil,
so the want of it had been, not only no harm, but the greatest good. Painters,
poets, people of genius of every kind had been stimulated by this
wholesome prick. Had Shakespeare been rich? She threw her head aloft
with a smile of conscious energy, and capacity, and power. No money! That
would be the best way to make a life worth living. She faced all heroisms,
all sacrifices, with a smile, and in a moment had gone through all the
labours and privations of years. He, working so many hours at a stretch,
bursting upon the world with the eloquence which was inspired by love and
necessity; she, making a shabby room into a paradise of content, working
for him with her own happy hands, carrying him through every
despondency and difficulty. Good heavens! could any little idiot suppose
that to settle down on a good income and never have any trouble would be
half so delightful as this? Anne used strong language in the swelling of her
breast.
It made her laugh with a little ridicule of herself, and a half sense that, if
Rose’s tendency was prose, hers might perhaps be heroics, when it occurred
to her that Cosmo, instead of rushing back to his work, had only intended to
catch the Scotch mail, and that he was going to the Highlands to shoot;
while she herself was expected in Mrs. Worth’s room to have her dress tried
on for the Meadowlands’ party. But, after all, what did that matter? There
was no hurry; it was still the Long Vacation, in which no man can work, and
in the meantime there was no economy for her to begin upon.
The maid whom she and Rose shared between them, and whose name
was Keziah, came to the door to call her when she had reached this point.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Anne,’ she said; ‘I didn’t know you had no
lights.’
‘They were quite unnecessary, thank you,’ said Anne, rising up out of her
meditations, calmed, yet with all the force of this new stimulus to her
thoughts.
 CHAPTER VIII.

THE MEADOWLANDS’ PARTY.

It was a very large party—collected from all the quarters of England, or

even it may be said of the globe, seeing there was a Russian princess and an
American literary gentleman among the lists of the guests, as well as
embracing the whole county, and everybody that had any claim to be
affiliated into society there. Lady Meadowlands made a very liberal
estimate of what could be called the society of the county—too liberal an
estimate, many people thought. The clergy, everyone knows, must be
present in force at every such function, and all their belongings, down to the
youngest daughter who is out; but such a rule surely ought not to apply to
country practitioners; and even to the brewer at Hunston, who, though he
was rich, was nobody. Upon that point almost everybody made a stand, and
it is to be feared that Mrs. and Miss Brewer did not enjoy themselves at the
Castle. But these were drawbacks not fully realised till afterwards. The
people who were aggrieved by the presence of the brewer’s family were
those who themselves were not very sure of their standing, and who felt it
was ‘no compliment’ to be asked when such persons were also
acknowledged as within the mystic ring. Dr. Peacock’s wife and Miss
Woodhead were the ladies who felt it most; though poor Mr. Peacock
himself was considered by some to be quite as great a blot. All the roads in
the neighbourhood of the Castle were as gay as if there had been a fair
going on. The village turned out bodily to see the carriages and horses of
the quality; though these fine people themselves were perhaps less admired
by the rustics than the beautiful tall footman in powder who had come from
town with Lady Prayrey Poule. But as every new arrival drove up, the
excitement rose to a high pitch; even the soberest of people are moved by
the sensation of multitude, the feeling of forming part of a distinguished
crowd. And the day was fine, with a sunny haze hanging about the distance,
reddening the sun and giving a warm indistinctness to the sky. The grounds
at Meadowlands were fine, and the park very extensive. The house was a
modern and handsome house, and at some distance from it stood an old
castle in ruins, which was the greatest attraction of the place. Upon the
lawns a great many ‘games’ were going on. I have already said that I have
no certainty as to whether the games were croquet or lawn-tennis, not
knowing or remembering when the one period ended and the other began.
But they were enough in either case to supply lively groups of young
persons in pretty dresses, and afford a little gentle amusement to the
lookers-on, especially when those lookers-on were the parents or relations
of the performers. The Mountford party held a half-way place in the
hierarchy of Lady Meadowlands’ guests. They were, as has been said, a
very old family, though their want of wealth had for some time made them
less desirable neighbours than it is pleasant for members of an old family to
be. And though the girls might, as was generally said, now ‘marry
anybody,’ and consequently rise to any distinction, Mr. and Mrs. Mountford
were not the kind of people whom it would have afforded the Princess
Comatosky any pleasure to have presented to her, or who would have been
looked upon as fine types of the English landed gentry by Mr. Greenwood,
the American. But, on the other hand, they occupied a position very
different from that of the rank and file, the people who, but for their
professional position, would have had no right to appear in the heaven of
county society at all. And Anne and Rose being pretty, and having the hope,
one of a very good fortune, the other of a reasonable dot, were really in the
first rank of young ladies without any drawbacks at all. Perhaps the reader
will like to know what they wore on this interesting occasion. They were
not dressed alike, as sisters so often are, without regard to individuality.
After very serious thought, Mrs. Worth had decided that the roses of Rose
wanted subduing, and had dressed her in Tussore silk, of the warm natural
grass colour; while Anne, always much more easy to dress, as that artist
said, was in an ivory-tinted cashmere, very plain and simple, which did all
that was wanted for her slim and graceful figure. Rose had flouncelets and
puffings beyond mortal power to record. Anne was better without the
foreign aid of ornament. I don’t pretend to be so uninstructed as to require
to describe a lady’s dress as only of ‘some soft white material.’ It was
cashmere, and why shouldn’t one say so? For by this time a little autumn
chill had set in, and even in the middle of the day it was no longer
overpoweringly warm.
It is needless to say that the Ashleys were also there. These young men,
though so constantly with the girls at home, had to relinquish their place a
little when abroad, and especially when in more exalted company. Then it
became apparent that Charley and Willie, though great friends, were not in
any way of the same importance as Anne and Rose. They were not
handsome, for one thing, or very clever or amusing—but only Charley and
Willie Ashley, which was a title for friendship, but not for social
advancement. And especially were they separated from Anne, whose climax
of social advancement came when she was presented to the Princess
Comatosky, who admired her eyes and her dress, the latter being a most
unusual compliment. There was a fashionable party assembled in the house
besides all the county people, and the Miss Mountfords were swept away
into this brilliant sphere and introduced to everybody. Rose was a little
abashed at first, and looked back with anxious eyes at her mother, who was
seated on the edge of that higher circle, but not within it; but she soon got
confidence. Anne, however, who was not so self-possessed, was excited by
the fine company. Her complexion, which was generally pale, took a faint
glow, her eyes became so bright that the old Russian lady grew quite
enthusiastic. ‘I like a handsome girl,’ she said; ‘bring her back once more to
speak to me.’ Mr. Greenwood, the American, was of the same opinion. He
was not at all like the American author of twenty years ago, before we knew
the species. He spoke as little through his nose as the best of us, and his
manners were admirable. He was more refinedly English than an
Englishman, more fastidious in his opposition to display and vulgarity, and
his horror of loud tones and talk; and there was just a nuance of French
politeness in his look and air. He was as exquisitely polite to the merest
commoner as if he had been a crowned head, but at the same time it was
one of the deepest certainties of his heart that he was only quite at home
among people of title and in a noble house. Not all people of title: Mr.
Greenwood had the finest discrimination and preferred at all times the best.
But even he was pleased with Anne. ‘Miss Mountford is very
inexperienced,’ he said, in his gentle way; ‘she does not know how to drop
into a conversation or to drop out of it. Perhaps that is too fine an art to
learn at twenty: but she is more like a lady than anyone else I see here.’
Lady Meadowlands, like most of the fashionable world, had a great respect
for Mr. Greenwood’s opinion. ‘That is so much from you!’ she said
gratefully; ‘and if you give her the advantage of seeing a little of you, it will
do dear Anne the greatest good.’ Mr. Greenwood shook his head modestly,
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