There was something, perhaps, in all the preparations for her departure which had thrown dust in Phoebe Beecham’s eyes. She had been too sharp-sighted not to see into her mother’s qualms and hesitations about her visit to Carlingford, and the repeated warnings of both parents as to the “difference from what she had been accustomed to;” and she thought she had fully prepared herself for what she was to encounter. But probably the elaborate outfit provided by her mother and the importance attached to her journey had to some degree obliterated this impression, for it is certain that when Phoebe saw an old man in a shabby coat, with a wisp of a large white neckcloth round his throat, watching anxiously for the arrival of the train as it came up, she sustained a shock which she had not anticipated. It was about five years since she had seen her grandfather, an interval due to hazard rather than purpose, though, on the whole, the elder Beechams had not been sorry to keep their parents and their children apart. Phoebe, however, knew her grandfather perfectly well as soon as she saw him, though he had not perceived her, and was wandering anxiously up and down in search of her. She held back in her corner for the moment, to overcome the shock. Yes, there could be no doubt about it; there he was, he whom she was going to visit, under whose auspices she was about to appear in Carlingford. He was not even like an old Dissenting minister, which had been her childish notion of him. He looked neither more nor less than what he was, an old shopkeeper, very decent and respectable, but a little shabby and greasy, like the men whose weekly bills she had been accustomed to pay for her mother. She felt an instant conviction that he would call her “Ma’am,” if she went up to him, and think her one of the quality. Poor Phoebe! she sat back in her corner and gave a gasp of horror and dismay, but having done this, she was herself again. She gave herself a shake, like one who is about to take a plunge, rose lightly to her feet, took up her bag, and stepped out of the carriage, just as Mr. Tozer strolled anxiously past for the third time.
“Grandpapa!” she cried with a smile. Mr. Tozer was almost as much taken aback by this apparition as Phoebe herself had been. He knew that his daughter had made great strides in social elevation, and that her children, when he had seen them last, had been quite like “gentlefolk’s children;” but to see this young princess step forth graciously out of a first-class carriage, and address him as “grandpapa,” took away his breath.
“Why—why—why, Miss! you ain’t little Phoebe?” he cried, scared out of his seven senses, as he afterwards said.
“Yes, indeed, I am little Phoebe,” she said, coming up and kissing him dutifully. She was half-disgusted, he half-frightened; but yet it was right, and Phoebe did it. “I have only two boxes and a bag,” she said, “besides my dressing-case. If you will get a cab, grandpapa, I will go and see after the luggage.”
Old Tozer thought he could have carried the bag himself, and left the boxes to follow; but he succumbed humbly and obeyed.
“She don’t seem a bit proud,” he said to himself; “but, good Lord, what’ll she ever say to my old woman?”
He saw the contrast very clearly between his wife and this splendid grandchild. It did not strike him so much in his own case.
“How is grandmamma?” said Phoebe, blandly; “better, I hope? Mamma was so sorry not to come herself; but you know, of course, she has a great many things to do. People in town are obliged to keep up certain appearances. You are a great deal better off in the country, grandpapa.”
“Lord bless you, my dear, do you call Carlingford the country?” said Mr. Tozer. “That is all you know about it. Your granny and I are humble folks, but the new minister at Salem is one as keeps up appearances with the best. Your mother was always inclined for that. I hope she has not brought you up too fine for the likes of us.”
“I hope not, indeed,” said Phoebe. “No fear of my being too fine for my duty, grandpapa. Do you live down this nice road? How pretty it is! how delightful these gardens must be in summer. I beg your pardon for calling it the country. It is so quiet and so nice, it seems the country to me.”
“Ah, to be sure; brought up in the London smoke,” said Mr. Tozer. “I don’t suppose, now, you see a bit of green from year’s end to year’s end? Very bad for the ’ealth, that is; but I can’t say you look poorly on it. Your colour’s fresh, so was your mother’s before you. To be sure, she wasn’t cooped up like you.”
“Oh, we do get a little fresh air sometimes—in the parks, for instance,” said Phoebe. She was somewhat piqued by the idea that she was supposed to live in London smoke.
“Ah, the parks are always something; but I suppose it takes you a day’s journey to get at them,” said Mr. Tozer, shaking his head. “You mustn’t mind your grandmother’s temper just at first, my dear. She’s old, poor soul, and she ain’t well, and she’s sometimes cross above a bit. But she’ll be that proud of you, she won’t know if she’s on her ’eels
