“It might be reasonable if you did though, from fear lest he should turn out like his father.—But do you know why I would not accept your offer of taking my name when I should succeed to the property?”
“You said you liked mine better,” I answered.
“So I did. But I did not tell you that I was ashamed that my good husband should take a name which for centuries had been borne by hard-hearted, worldly minded people, who, to speak the truth of my ancestors to my husband, were neither gentle nor honest, nor high-minded.”
“Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it, though it is not so easy to say what. And you avoid that. I suppose Martha has been talking you over to her side.”
“Harry,” my wife said, with a shade of solemnity, “I am almost ashamed of you for the first time. And I will punish you by telling you the truth. Do you think I had nothing of that sort to get over when I began to find that I was thinking a little more about you than was quite convenient under the circumstances? Your manners, dear Harry, though irreproachable, just had not the tone that I had been accustomed to. There was a diffidence about you also that did not at first advance you in my regard.”
“Yes, yes,” I answered, a little piqued, “I dare say. I have no doubt you thought me a boor.”
“Dear Harry!”
“I beg your pardon, wifie. I know you didn’t. But it is quite bad enough to have brought you down to my level, without sinking you still lower.”
“Now there you are wrong, Harry. And that is what I want to show you. I found that my love to you would not be satisfied with making an exception in your favour. I must see what force there really was in the notions I had been bred in.”
“Ah!” I said. “I see. You looked for a principle in what you had thought was an exception.”