To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little, but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!”
“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over.
“May I come back to-morrow?”
“Why—yes—I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked disappointed.
Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present.
Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was.
“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel.
“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.
“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will, which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered Norman—left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.”