by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. XXI
I AM ENTIRELY SATISFIED
For an hour I have been seated at a table on the veranda of the Woodvaleclub house looking over the pages of this diary.
Certainly I am entitled to a new sobriquet. As a youngster I was called"Socks Smith." In more recent years I have been hailed as "Foxy OldSmith," and by a few friends as "Old Prog. Smith," but as I review myrecord for the past two months it seems to me that I am fairly entitledto be called "Lucky Smith."
Of least importance, but none the less satisfying has been the wonderfulimprovement in my golf game. I am driving as long a ball as any clubmember. I have won the club championship and the Harding Trophy. I holdthe low amateur score for the course, and only yesterday came within astroke of defeating Wallace. I must admit that the poor chap was off hisgame. He is still thinking of Miss Lawrence. It's a shame the way sheled him on, but he is young and will get over it.
It was my privilege to be instrumental in saving Mr. Harding's life fromthe mad rush of that bull. I showed a little judgment and nerve,perhaps, but luck gave me the opportunity.
Every incident preceding, during and after that tornado was in myfavour. Even my mistakes resulted to my advantage. Fate smiled on methrough the awful fury of that tempest.
These fortuitous happenings and incidents are nothing compared with oneconsideration which makes me the happiest man in the world. It is notthat I made a lucky venture in stocks and acquired more millions thanall of my ancestors ever possessed. That is something, of course, but Ihad enough money for any rational human being before this flood ofwealth poured into my lucky hands.
These are not the things which steep my soul in joy ineffable!
I know that I possess the love of Grace Harding!
She has not told me; it is not necessary that she shall say the words toconfirm the truth which has come to me. I know that she loves me; is notthat enough?
Chilvers passed while I was sitting here and caught me smiling. I wasreading the sixteenth entry in this diary.
"What are you grinning at, Smith?" he demanded.
I did not tell him. I had been reading my soliloquy to the effect thatthe knowledge of love is conveyed without verbal expression betweenthose who love. I had written: "The man who fails to avail himself ofthis silent but eloquent language, and who stupidly assaults a womanwith an open avowal of an alleged love deserves to be coldly rejected."
Then I wrote that these voiceless messages to the one you love would beconsidered and finally answered, and that there might come a day "whenover the throbbing unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding theletters 'Y-E-S,' then proceed with the sweet formality of a verbalconfession and avowal of your love, and you will not be disappointed."
I have received that glorious message! Grace Harding has told me thatshe loves me!
The message was transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes! Ithas been confirmed by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on myarm! It has been echoed in the accents of her sweet voice! I have readit in the blush which mantles her check as I draw near, and I know itfrom a thousand little tokens which my heart understands and which myfeeble words cannot express.
I am
