That was precisely what Mahlon had intended doing, or having his wife do, but that clever provision “beneath your dignity” cut him to the core, even as his daughter intended that it should. She knew when she injected that neat little phrase that she had forever stopped her father and her mother from opening their mouths concerning the origin of the bird, because with each of them their dignity was more important than their souls—and more tangible in their own conception.
To Mahlon it was a body blow. He ran his perturbed fingers through his perplexed hair and stared at the innocent young face before him. Had he been any other man, he would have said that he would “be damned;” being himself, and a truthful man, he was absolutely confident that he should not be damned, while it certainly was “beneath his dignity” to lie on any subject. So he compromised by using milder methods.
“It passes my comprehension,” he said, and his bewilderment became tangible, shrouded him like a blanket.
Mahala instantly agreed with him.
“Yes, so it does mine,” she said. “Mother is very wise, perhaps she can think it out, or I may get some hint at school to-morrow. But, anyway, after all, Papa, is one small brass cage and one teeny yellow canary a matter of such very great moment? I don’t know what cages cost, but seems to me I’ve heard some one say that you could buy a nice singer for three dollars. I’ve even heard of them as cheap as two. Why is it such a terrible thing to be given a little bit of a gold bird with a miracle in its throat? Please go to bed, Papa, and don’t bother about it.”
Mahala arose and put her arms across her father’s shoulder, and her father drew her down in his lap and held her very close.
In his most warmly sympathetic tones of adjuration he said: “My child, this is only the beginning of the things Papa is forced to say to you to-night. I never have known you to lie to me. Your face is impressively candid, I must admit. I must accept your word that you know nothing concerning the giver of this bird; but I have a very strong idea that you do know something concerning Junior’s injury which might have been, and yet may be, a thing extremely serious for all of us. There is such a thing as concussion of the brain developing hours after a blow on the head, you know.”
“I hardly think, Papa,” said Mahala, carefully settling Mahlon’s tie in his own best manner, “that a blow on the temple is going to produce concussion. It’s usually the back of the head, isn’t it, when there are bad results?”
Mahlon drew a breath of exasperation. He caught Mahala’s hands from his hair and his tie and shoving her to the extreme limit of his knees, forced her eyes to meet his or deliberately avoid them.
“Now, look here, young woman, let’s get down to brass tacks,” he said authoritatively. “Just what did Junior Moreland say or do to you at the gate?”