ay that they were all signally, _miserably_, unsuccessful. _You_, my
dear reader, would of course have managed infinitely better; I am well
aware of that. But remember, if you please, that I was only a plain,
unpolished sailor; a man who, maybe, could handle a ship fairly well,
take care of her in a gale of wind, and navigate her successfully from
port to port, but who had until now had no experience of women and their
ways. Moreover, I would have cut off my right hand rather than have
said or done anything to offend one of the sex worthy the name of woman.
So, for the first time in my life, I was fairly nonplussed and unhappy;
knowing full well what I wanted, but not knowing what steps I ought to
take in order to insure to myself a fair chance of obtaining it. Such a
state of mind, however, is not likely to be long tolerated by a sailor;
my good sense came to my aid, and whispered that if my love loved me, I
had only to give her the opportunity to say so, and all would be well.
So one night--how well I remember it! it was pitch-dark, and we were
just clear of the Straits of Sunda, rolling merrily along before a fresh
easterly breeze under every rag that we could pack upon the ship--I got
the dear girl to myself for a while upon the poop, and told her in
simple, sailorly language exactly what were my feelings and hopes. We
were promenading the poop together, arm in arm, while I spoke, and she
heard me to the end without a word. Then she stopped, and placing both
her hands in mine, said, with an unmistakable quiver of emotion in her
voice--
"Thank you, Jack, for the most priceless gift a man can offer a woman--
the gift of a loyal, loving heart. I accept it gratefully, dear, and
will do my best to make you happy; for I believe I have loved you from
the very first, my darling."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Cruise of the "Esmeralda", by Harry Collingwood
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