She began to see that all the world were brothers and sisters, and dependent upon each other, not only for comfort, but for happiness itself. She herself in her pride and exclusiveness had never really known what happiness was before, because she had never been free. Accustomed to exact and to receive homage from almost every one around her, she had been living in a kind of fool’s paradise, imagining that she was not as other people, that because she had, not riches, but birth and high pedigree, she was made of different material than the “plebs,” the common herd, could boast of.
Now the scales seemed falling from her eyes. She could see arightly; she could even notice and learn that the world in general was independent of her, but that she was dependent on the world.
Those hardy seamen, who went merrily about at their work, talking, laughing, often singing, appeared not to know nor care that she, Lady Alwyn, was in existence. If Jack at his duty came on the quarter-deck, and she were in the way, politely but firmly Jack would tell her, “I’ll trouble you to shift for a moment, ma’am.”
Some of the politest of these offered an arm, and the proud Lady Alwyn was surprised at herself for accepting the kindly offered assistance.
She was surprised at herself, too, for positively feeling lost, unless she had some one to talk to, and to find herself often conversing with Captain Jahnsen as if he had been a brother, or with Meta as if she were a sister.
The latter, indeed, became indispensable to Lady Alwyn even before the ship had reached the longitude of Cape Farewell.
Before another fortnight had passed I think she really loved Meta; for Meta had been so unremittingly kind and attentive to her. She had calmed her fears when the winds or seas were raging and the storm roaring through the rigging, and when the poor little yacht was surrounded with floating icebergs so tall and so terrible in their tallness and quiet but awful strength, that the vessel looked beside them like a tiny fly on a crystal épergne.
Meta used to read to her, play to her, sing to her, and tell her tales; but she never told her the tale—she never told her the tale of her love.
One day the book drooped listlessly in Meta’s lap, and there came such a sad far-away look in her eyes, that—they were alone in the cabin—Lady Alwyn took her gently by the hand.
“What are you thinking about, dear child?” said the lady. “You have something on your mind—some grief, some sadness.”