It was a good thing that Geoffrey's strength had in some degree returned, for Bowker clutched his hand in an iron grip, as in a dull low voice, he said, "Do you remember my telling you the story of my life? Why did I tell you that? Not for sympathy, but for example. I saw the rock on to which you were drifting, and hoped to keep you clear. I exposed the sadness of my life to you when the game was played out and there was no possibility of redemption. I can't tell what strait you may be in; but if I can help you out of it, there is no mortal thing I will not do to aid you."
As well as he could Geoff returned the pressure; then, after a moment's pause, said, "You know, of course, that my wife has left me?"
Bowker bowed in acquiescence.
"You know the circumstances?"
"I know nothing, Geoff, beyond the mere fact. Whatever talk there may be among such of the boys as I drop in upon now and then, if it turned upon you and your affairs, save in the matter of praising your art, it would be certain to be hushed as soon as I stepped in amongst them. They knew our intimacy, and they are by far too good fellows to say any thing that would pain me. So that beyond the mere fact which you have just stated, I know nothing."
Then in a low weak voice, occasionally growing full and powerful under excitement, and subsiding again into its faint tone, Geoffrey Ludlow told to William Bowker the whole history of his married life, beginning with his finding Margaret on the doorstep, and ending by placing in his friend's hands the posthumous letter of Lord Caterham. Throughout old Bowker listened with rapt attention to the story, and when he came back from the window, to which he had stepped for the perusal of the letter, Geoffrey noticed that there were big tears rolling down his cheeks. He was silent for a minute or two after he had laid the letter on Geoffrey's bed; when he spoke, he said, "We're a dull lot, the whole race of us; and that's the truth. We pore over our own twopenny sorrows, and think that the whole army of martyrs could not show such a specimen as ourselves. Why, Geoff, dear old man, what was my punishment to yours! What was,--but, however, I need not talk of that. You want my services--say how."
"I want your advice first, William. I want to know how to--how to find my wife--for, O, to me she is my wife; how to find Margaret. You'll blame me probably, and tell me that I am mad--that I ought to cast her off altogether, and to--But I cannot do that, William; I cannot do that; for I love her--O my God, how I love her still!" And Geoffrey Ludlow hid his face in his arms, and wept like a child.
"I shan't blame you, Geoff, nor tell you any thing of the kind," said old Bowker, in a deep low voice. "I should have been very much surprised if--However, that's neither here nor there. What we want is to find her now. You say there's not been the slightest clue to her since she left this house?"
"Not the slightest."
"She has not sent for any thing--clothes, or any thing?"