“And of all the comforts our native land affords, I know of none so grateful to the heart,” continued he, “as good friends, which are to be found nowhere else in such perfection. A man at my time of life misses many an old friend on his return to his native country; but then he sees them still in their representatives, and loves them again in their children. Mr. Beaumont looked at me at that instant, so like his father—he is the image of what my friend was, when I first knew him.”
“I am rejoiced you see the likeness,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “Amelia, my dear, pour out the coffee.”
“And Miss Beaumont, too, has just his expression of countenance, which surprises me more, in her delicate features. Upon my word, I have reason to be proud of my god-daughter, as far as appearances go; and with English women, appearances, fair as they may be, seldom are even so good as the truth. There’s her father’s smile again for me—young lady, if that smile deceives, there’s no truth in woman.”
“Do not you find our coffee here very bad, compared with what you have been used to abroad?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“I do rejoice to find myself here quiet in the country,” continued Mr. Palmer, without hearing the lady’s question; “nothing after all like a good old English family, where every thing speaks plenty and hospitality, without waste or ostentation; and where you are received with a hearty welcome, without compliments; and let do just as you please, without form, and without being persecuted by politeness.”
This was the image of an English country family impressed early upon the good old gentleman’s imagination, which had remained there fresh and unchanged since the days of his youth; and he now took it for granted that he should see it realized in the family of his late friend.
“I was afraid,” resumed Mrs. Beaumont, “that after being so long accustomed to a West-Indian life, you would find many things unpleasant to your feelings here. But you are so kind, so accommodating. Is it really possible that you have not, since your return to England, experienced any uncomfortable sensations, suffered any serious injury to your health, my dear sir, from the damps and chills of our climate?”
“Why, now I think of it, I have—I have a cough,” said Mr. Palmer, coughing.
Mrs. Beaumont officiously shut the window.
“I do acknowledge that England is not quite so superior to all other countries in her climate as in every thing else: yet I don’t ‘damn the climate like a lord.’ At my time of life, a man must expect to be a valetudinarian, and it would be unjust to blame one’s native climate for that. But a man of seventy-five must live where he can, not where he will; and Dr. Y—— tells me that I can live nowhere but in the West Indies.”