Providence had thrown in his way a woman who possessed every qualification to be the helpmate of an agriculturist, and was decidedly of a serious turn of mind. He would not say whether or not she had attached herself to the sound Low Church School of his father; but she would probably be open to conviction on that point; she was a regular churchgoer of simple faith; honest-hearted, receptive, intelligent, graceful to a degree, chaste as a vestal, and, in personal appearance, exceptionally beautiful.
“Is she of a family such as you would care to marry into—a lady, in short?” asked his startled mother, who had come softly into the study during the conversation.
“She is not what in common parlance is called a lady,” said Angel, unflinchingly, “for she is a cottager’s daughter, as I am proud to say. But she is a lady, nevertheless—in feeling and nature.”
“Mercy Chant is of a very good family.”
“Pooh!—what’s the advantage of that, mother?” said Angel quickly. “How is family to avail the wife of a man who has to rough it as I have, and shall have to do?”
“Mercy is accomplished. And accomplishments have their charm,” returned his mother, looking at him through her silver spectacles.
“As to external accomplishments, what will be the use of them in the life I am going to lead?—while as to her reading, I can take that in hand. She’ll be apt pupil enough, as you would say if you knew her. She’s brim full of poetry—actualized poetry, if I may use the expression. She lives what paper-poets only write … And she is an unimpeachable Christian, I am sure; perhaps of the very tribe, genus, and species you desire to propagate.”
“O Angel, you are mocking!”