The alarming summons home and the terrible shock she had experienced the following morning when Jefferson showed her the newspaper article with its astounding and heart rending news about her father had almost prostrated Shirley. The blow was all the greater for being so entirely unlooked for. That the story was true she could not doubt. Her mother would not have cabled except under the gravest circumstances. What alarmed Shirley still more was that she had no direct news of her father. For a moment her heart stood still—suppose the shock of this shameful accusation had killed him? Her blood froze in her veins, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her flesh as she thought of the dread possibility that she had looked upon him in life for the last time. She remembered his last kind words when he came to the steamer to see her off, and his kiss when he said good-bye and she had noticed a tear of which he appeared to be ashamed. The hot tears welled up in her own eyes and coursed unhindered down her cheeks.
What could these preposterous and abominable charges mean? What was this lie they had invented to ruin her father? That he had enemies she well knew. What strong man had not? Indeed, his proverbial honesty had made him feared by all evil-doers and on one occasion they had gone so far as to threaten his life. This new attack was more deadly than all—to sap and destroy his character, to deliberately fabricate lies and calumnies which had no foundation whatever. Of course, the accusation was absurd, the Senate would refuse to convict him, the entire press would espouse the cause of so worthy a public servant. Certainly, everything would be done to clear his character. But what was being done? She could do nothing but wait and wait. The suspense and anxiety were awful.
Suddenly she heard a familiar step behind her, and Jefferson joined her at the rail. The wind was due West and blowing half a gale, so where they were standing—one of the most exposed parts of the ship—it was difficult to keep one's feet, to say nothing of hearing anyone speak. There was a heavy sea running, and each approaching wave looked big enough to engulf the vessel, but as the mass of moving water reached the bow, the ship rose on it, light and graceful as a bird, shook off the flying spray as a cat shakes her fur after an unwelcome bath, and again drove forward as steady and with as little perceptible motion as a railway train. Shirley was a fairly good sailor and this kind of weather did not bother her in the least, but when it got very rough she could not bear the rolling and pitching and then all she was good for was to lie still in her steamer chair with her eyes closed until the water was calmer and the pitching ceased.
“It's pretty windy here, Shirley,” shouted Jefferson, steadying himself against a stanchion. “Don't you want to walk a little?”
He had begun to call her by her first name quite naturally, as if it were a matter of course. Indeed, their relations had come to be more like those of brother and sister than anything else. Shirley was too much troubled over the news from home to have a mind for other things, and in her distress she had turned to Jefferson for advice and help as she would have looked to an elder brother. He had felt this impulse to confide in him and consult his opinion and it had pleased him more than he dared betray. He had shown her all the sympathy of which his warm, generous nature was capable, yet secretly he did not regret that events had necessitated this sudden return home together on the same ship. He was sorry for Judge Rossmore, of course, and there was nothing he would not do on his return to secure a withdrawal of the charges. That his father would use his influence he had no doubt. But meantime he was selfish enough to be glad for the opportunity it gave him to be a whole week alone with Shirley. No matter how much one may be with people in city or country or even when stopping at the same hotel or house, there is no place in the world where two persons, especially when they are of the opposite sex, can become so intimate as on shipboard. The reason is obvious. The days are long and monotonous. There is nowhere to go, nothing to see but the ocean, nothing to do but read, talk or promenade. Seclusion in one's stuffy cabin is out of the question, the public sitting rooms are noisy and impossible, only a steamer chair on deck is comfortable and once there snugly wrapped up in a rug it is surprising how quickly another chair makes its appearance alongside and how welcome one is apt to make the intruder.
Thus events combined with the weather conspired to bring Shirley and Jefferson more closely together. The sea had been rough ever since they sailed, keeping Mrs. Blake confined to her stateroom almost continuously. They were, therefore, constantly in one another's company, and slowly, unconsciously, there was taking root in their hearts the germ of the only real and lasting love—the love born of something higher than mere physical attraction, the nobler, more enduring affection that is born of mutual sympathy, association and companionship.
“Isn't it beautiful?” exclaimed Shirley ecstatically. “Look at those great waves out there! See how majestically they soar and how gracefully they fall!”
“Glorious!” assented Jefferson sharing her enthusiasm. “There's nothing to compare with it. It's Nature's grandest spectacle. The ocean is the only place on earth that man has not defiled and spoiled. Those waves are the same now as they were on the day of creation.”
“Not the day of creation. You mean during the aeons of time creation was evolving,” corrected Shirley.
“I meant that of course,” assented Jefferson. “When one says ‘day’ that is only a form of speech.”