Part 2 (2/2)
She did it so well, so without hurry and with knowledge, that it was worth while watching her, if David's own cooking could have spared him.
He did find time once to offer her a.s.sistance and that she refused, politely but curtly. With sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hat off, showing a roll of hair on the crown of her head separated by a neat parting from the curls that hung against her cheeks, she was absorbed in the business in hand. Evidently she was one of those persons to whom the matter of the moment is the only matter. When her biscuits were done, puffy and brown, she volunteered a preoccupied explanation:
”I've been learning to do this all winter, and I'm going to do it right.”
And even then it was less an excuse for her abruptness than the announcement of a compact with herself, steadfast, almost grim.
After supper they sat by the fire, silent with fatigue, the scent of the men's tobacco on the air, the girl, with her hands clasping her knees, looking into the flames. In the shadows behind the old servant moved about. They could hear him crooning to the mules, and then catch a glimpse of his gnomelike figure bearing blankets from the wagon to the tent. There came a point where his labors seemed ended, but his activity had merely changed its direction. He came forward and said to the girl,
”Missy, your bed's ready. You'd better be going.”
She gave a groan and a movement of protest under which was the hopeless acquiescence of the conquered:
”Not yet, Daddy John. I'm so comfortable sitting here.”
”There's two thousand miles before you. Mustn't get tired this early.
Come now, get up.”
His manner held less of urgence than of quiet command. He was not dictatorial, but he was determined. The girl looked at him, sighed, rose to her knees, and then made a last appeal to her father:
”Father, _do_ take my part. Daddy John's too interfering for words!”
But her father would only laugh at her discomfiture.
”All right,” she said as she bent down to kiss him. ”It'll be your turn in just about five minutes.”
It was an accurate prophecy. The tent flaps had hardly closed on her when Daddy John attacked his employer.
”Goin' now?” he said, sternly.
The doctor knew his fate, and like his daughter offered a spiritless and intimidated resistance.
”Just let me finish this pipe,” he pleaded.
Daddy John was inexorable:
”It's no way to get cured settin' round the fire puffin' on a pipe.”
”Ten minutes longer?”
”We'll roll out to-morrer at seven.”
”Daddy John, go to bed!”
”I got to see you both tucked in for the night before I do. Can't trust either of you.”
The doctor, beaten, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and rose with resignation.
”This is the family skeleton,” he said to the young men who watched the performance with curiosity. ”We're ground under the heel of Daddy John.”
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