That Meg, his special pet, his favourite daughter, of whose beauty he had been so proud, whose very failings were so like his own that he had felt them a subtle form of flattery, that Meg should have done this thing,—it seemed monstrous and impossible.
At first he absolutely refused to credit her aunt's letter, throwing it into the fire with a quick scornful gesture and an angry laugh; but by the time he had reached England, the reality of what had happened had entered into his soul.
Mrs. Russelthorpe was not a sympathetic woman, but she cared for her brother; and the sight of his face on their first meeting in the drawing-room made her blench for once, and avert her gaze.
He uttered no word of reproach, he asked few questions, and made no comments.
If Margaret had been dead he would have wept for her; but she was too far away for tears. She had given the lie to her past; and, had he found her in her coffin, he felt that she would have been less utterly lost to him.
Death might have drawn a veil between them, but it is only life that can separate utterly.
Mrs. Russelthorpe made one faint attempt at consolation; but consoling was not in her line, and she did it awkwardly.
Mr. Deane lifted his head and looked at her, with a face that seemed to have grown grey, and eyes that were terribly like Meg's.
"Don't, please!" he said; "you mean well, sis—but you don't understand. She was my child, and is my grief." And Mrs. Russelthorpe was silent. If she had ever felt moved to a revelation of what had led to Meg's flight, she said to herself now that her brother's own entreaty sealed her lips.
No one spoke to him of Meg after that, though every one felt sorry for him. The quiet dignity with which he bore his trouble awoke more sympathy than any lamentations would have aroused; but he was a man who always and involuntarily awoke sympathy, whether in his joy or in his grief.