“He is very fond of her,” Traherne interposed.
“Tell that to the marines!” the Colonel growled.
“He is, sir,” the other insisted.
“Taken a rotten way of showing it,” Agnew grunted.
“Very rotten,” Dr. Traherne agreed sadly.
“A sweeter woman never breathed. As nice a woman, and as good a woman too, as God ever made!”
“She is all that,” Basil Traherne said softly.
“I wish you’d seen her when she first came to us.”
“I can imagine her.”
“We lost our heads and our hearts to her. There wasn’t a man in the regiment that didn’t love her, and rejoice in her—and, by Jove! there wasn’t a woman that disliked her. Not one! I’ve been here some time, an’ I never knew that to happen before. I never expect to see it happen again. She was a perfectly happy, fearless, confident girl. Well—she’s fearless now! But where are her happiness and her confidence? Whiskey-poisoned, and wanton-killed. I’ve seen men die in battle—pretty badly mangled some of them—but a man can ask for nothing better than to die in battle! I’ve seen men hanged, I’ve seen men shaken and twisted and maddened by plague, and cholera. I’ve seen a white man eaten off by leprosy, a joint at a time, till there wasn’t much left of him but his middle. But the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen was the hardening of Lucilla Crespin—to watch her eyes stiffen, an’ that low, sweet voice of hers, to feel her grow cold. It was bad enough when a look of terror began to creep into her eyes—it was a thousand times worse when it changed, and settled to a frozen, still despair. And her smile! She never smiled much in the old days, but it was worth seeing when she did. She laughed oftener than she smiled. Her laugh, was a thing to hear, but it was her smile that fetched you—a dimple, and then a light! By Jove! You’ve seen Kathleen smile?” Traherne nodded. “Much the same thing. Sweet and glad, every bit of it! Now, that woman’s smile is the bitterest, saddest thing I know.”