‘She died soon, didn’t she?’ inquired Mr. Trippett.
‘Lived a matter of four years after the marriage,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘She wasn’t a strong woman, wasn’t poor Lucy—there was something wrong with her lungs, and after the boy came she seemed to wear away. He did all that a man could, did her husband—took her off to the south of Europe. Eh, dear, the letters that Keziah and Judith used to have from her, describing the places she saw—they read fair beautiful! But it were no good—she died at Rome, poor lass, when the boy was two years old.’
‘Poor thing!’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘And had all that she wanted, seemingly.’
‘Everything,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Her life was short but sweet, as you may say.’
‘And now he’s gone an’ all,’ said Mr. Trippett.
Mr. Pepperdine nodded.
‘Ay,’ he said, ‘he’s gone an’ all. I don’t think he ever rightly got over his wife’s death—anyway, he led a very restless life ever after, first one place and then another, never settling anywhere. Sometimes it was Italy, sometimes Paris, sometimes London—he’s seen something, has that boy. Ay, he’s dead, is poor Damerel.’
‘Leave owt behind him like?’ asked Mr. Trippett sententiously.
Mr. Pepperdine polished the end of his nose.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a nice little nest-egg for the boy when all’s settled up, I dare say. He wasn’t a saving sort of man, I should think, but dear-a-me, he must ha’ made a lot of money in his time—and spent it, too.’