“No, your ladyship. Just about six.”
She paused, rested her head on her hand, and looked at him intently from beneath the wave of hair that had dropped again about her brow, and asked: “Why do you still call me 'your ladyship' Stephen?”
“Well, I don't know, your ladyship. Mebbe it's because I've always been used to it. But I won't if your ladyship doesn't want me to.”
“Never mind, it does not matter. It has been so long since I have heard it that it sounded odd, that was all.” She roused herself with an effort and added, in a brighter tone, changing the topic: “It was very good of you to come to see Martha. She has me to look after now, and I am afraid she gets unhappy at times. You cannot think how good she is to me—so good—so good! I often wake in the night dreaming I am a child again and stretch out my hand to her, just as I used to do years ago when she slept beside me. She often speaks of you. I am glad you came to-day.”
Carlin had been standing over her all the time, his rough pea-jacket buttoned across his broad chest, his ruddy sailor's face with its fringe of gray whiskers, bushy eyebrows, and clear, steady gaze in vivid contrast to her own shrinking weakness.
“It ain't altogether Martha,” he exclaimed in tones suddenly grown deliberate. “It's you, your ladyship, that I particular came to see. You ain't fit to take care of yourself, and there ain't nobody but me and Martha that I can lay hands on now to help—nobody but just us two. I'm not here to judge nobody. I know what's happened and what you're going through, and you've got to let me lend a hand. If I lived to be a hundred I could never forget his lordship's kindness to me, and things can't go on as they are with you. There is a way out of it if you only knew it.”
She threw back her head quickly. “Not my Father?”
“No, not your father. Although his lordship would haul down his colors mighty quick if once he saw you as I do now. But there are others who would be glad to take a hand at the wheel and help you steer out of all this misery. You ain't accustomed to it and you don't deserve it, and I'm going to put a stop to it if I can.” This last came with still greater emphasis—the first mate was speaking now.
“Thank you, Stephen. You and Martha are very much alike. She has the loyalty of an old servant, and you have the loyalty of an old friend. But we must all pay for our mistakes—” she halted, drew in her breath, and added, picking at her dress, “—and our sins. Everybody condemns us but God. He is the only one who forgets, when we are sorry.”
“Not so many remember as you may think, your ladyship. Some of 'em have forgotten—forgotten everything—and are standing by ready to catch a line or man a boat.”