“You, Dick!” and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto, only lived in the favourite expletive, “As sure as my name is Dick May.”
“Of course,” said Dr. May. “‘Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him!’”
His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded them.
There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other. Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s side—and of looking up on Dr. May’s—and just as they had recurred to these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the heedless, high-spirited “Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the countenance, once so gay—the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow, formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in Dr. Spencer’s manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant interchange of new and old jokes and stories.
Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off—did a silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer held it this time most carefully, and said, “Oh, May! I did not expect this!”
“I should have prepared you,” said his host, “but I never recollected that you knew nothing—”
“I had dwelt on your happiness!”
“There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years,” said Dr. May, his voice low with emotion. “Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her always in undimmed brightness—always smiling as you remember her. She was happy. She is,” he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, “And you, Dick,” he said briefly.
“Sorrow spared her,” was Dr. May’s first answer. “And hers are very good children!”
There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May’s saying, “What do you think of my poor girl?”