She is a perfectly respectable, perfectly self-controlled woman, and looks it; though her pose is fashionably frank and impulsive.
She inspires confidence as a person who will do nothing she does not mean to do; also some fear, perhaps, as a woman who will probably do everything she means to do without taking more account of other people than may be necessary and what she calls right.
In short, what the weaker of her own sex sometimes call a cat.
Nothing can be more decorous than her entry and her reception by Ramsden, whom she kisses.
The late Mr Whitefield would be gratified almost to impatience by the long faces of the men (except Tanner, who is fidgety), the silent handgrasps, the sympathetic placing of chairs, the sniffing of the widow, and the liquid eye of the daughter, whose heart, apparently, will not let her control her tongue to speech.
Ramsden and Octavius take the two chairs from the wall, and place them for the two ladies; but Ann comes to Tanner and takes his chair, which he offers with a brusque gesture, subsequently relieving his irritation by sitting down on the corner of the writing table with studied indecorum.
Octavius gives Mrs Whitefield a chair next Ann, and himself takes the vacant one which Ramsden has placed under the nose of the effigy of Mr Herbert Spencer.
Mrs Whitefield, by the way, is a little woman, whose faded flaxen hair looks like straw on an egg.
She has an expression of muddled shrewdness, a squeak of protest in her voice, and an odd air of continually elbowing away some larger person who is crushing her into a corner.
One guesses her as one of those women who are conscious of being treated as silly and negligible, and who, without having strength enough to assert themselves effectually, at any rate never submit to their fate.
There is a touch of chivalry in Octavius's scrupulous attention to her, even whilst his whole soul is absorbed by Ann.
Ramsden goes solemnly back to his magisterial seat at the writing table, ignoring Tanner, and opens the proceedings.
RAMSDEN.
I am sorry, Annie, to force business on you at a sad time like the present.
But your poor dear father's will has raised a very serious question.
You have read it, I believe?
[Ann assents with a nod and a catch of her breath, too much affected to speak].
I must say I am surprised to find Mr Tanner named as joint guardian and trustee with myself of you and Rhoda. [A pause.
They all look portentous; but they have nothing to say.
Ramsden, a little ruffled by the lack of any response, continues] I don't know that I can consent to act under such conditions.
Mr Tanner has, I understand, some objection also; but I do not profess to understand its nature: he will no doubt speak for himself.
But we are agreed that we can decide nothing until we know your views.
I am afraid I shall have to ask you to choose between my sole guardianship and that of Mr Tanner; for I fear it is impossible for us to undertake a joint arrangement.
ANN. [in a low musical voice] Mamma—
MRS WHITEFIELD. [hastily] Now, Ann, I do beg you not to put it on me.
I have no opinion on the subject; and if I had, it would probably not be attended to.
I am quite with whatever you three think best.
Tanner turns his head and looks fixedly at Ramsden, who angrily refuses to receive this mute communication.
ANN. [resuming in the same gentle voice, ignoring her mother's bad taste] Mamma knows that she is not strong enough to bear the whole responsibility for me and Rhoda without some help and advice.
Rhoda must have a guardian; and though I am older, I do not think any young unmarried woman should be left quite to her own guidance.
I hope you agree with me, Granny?
TANNER. [starting] Granny!
Do you intend to call your guardians Granny?
ANN.
Don't be foolish, Jack.
Mr Ramsden has always been Grandpapa Roebuck to me: I am Granny's Annie; and he is Annie's Granny.
I christened him so when I first learned to speak.
RAMSDEN. [sarcastically] I hope you are satisfied, Mr Tanner.
Go on, Annie: I quite agree with you.
ANN.
Well, if I am to have a guardian, CAN I set aside anybody whom my dear father appointed for me?
RAMSDEN. [biting his lip] You approve of your father's choice, then?
ANN.
It is not for me to approve or disapprove.
I accept it.
My father loved me and knew best what was good for me.
RAMSDEN.
Of course I understand your feeling, Annie.
It is what I should have expected of you; and it does you credit.
But it does not settle the question so completely as you think.