He bowed to Mrs. Spofford, who ignored him, and then to Ruth, a wistful smile struggling to his lips and eyes as he did so. As he turned away, she spoke to him.
“You mentioned your hand being bad again. If you would like me to dress it for you,—under the circumstances,—I will do so.”
“Ruth!” cried Mrs. Spofford in a shocked voice.
He put his left hand behind his back. It was the one with which he had gripped Landover's wrist that morning. The strain had reopened the partially healed wounds.
“I injured it this morning in an encounter with your friend, Miss Clinton. I can hardly ask you to dress it. Thank you, just the same.”
“I know all that happened in Mr. Landover's cabin, but even so, I am ready and willing to do anything in my power to ease the pain you are suffering.” She spoke calmly, dispassionately, almost perfunctorily.
He shook his head. “I shouldn't have spoken of it,” he said. “It isn't so bad that I can't fix it up myself. Good-night.”
She joined her aunt and they made their way in silence to the latter's stateroom. It was not until after the door was safely locked that Mrs. Spofford delivered herself of the thought that had been in her mind the whole length of the slanting corridor.
“I hope he will not take advantage of his position to—to bully us—to bully you, dearest,—he might, you know. He has shown himself to be perfectly capable of it. And we are so defenceless. No one but Abel Landover to look to for help if he,—for, of course, no one else would dare oppose this lawless young,—oh, you need not smile! He has the power and it is quite plain now that he intends to exercise it. He will brook no interference—”
“I am not afraid of Mr. Percival, Aunt Julia,” said the girl, sitting down wearily on the edge of the berth. “He is a gentleman.”