The trouble about Gracie was not so light as she had tried to make it appear to the father. Neither had her attempt to reason the obstinate young daughter into something like graceful yielding been so free from self-pain as she would have him think. It was all about Prof. Ellis, a man who, as Marion expressed it to her husband, was good enough for a teacher, but not at all the sort of man for one so young and so impressible as Gracie to ride away with to an evening entertainment.
“He is the only one I have been in the habit of allowing her to ride with,” the father had said, aghast, and then had followed, on Marion’s part, a startled exclamation to the effect that she would have trusted her sooner with a dozen of “the boys” with whom she had not been allowed to associate.
“They are better than he,” she said, earnestly, and then had followed a long, confidential talk, which had ended in the peremptory, and by no means wisely put, negative to Gracie’s plans; and then had followed, on her part, questionings and surmises until at last she understood that this new mother, who had been but a little while ago a stranger to them both, had come between her father and herself, and then had followed, as anyone of sense might have known there would, a scene which was by no means complimentary to Gracie or comforting to the new mother. She had tried to be wise.
“Gracie,” she had said, in her gentlest tone, “you know I am a good many years older than you, and I have known Prof. Ellis very well, and I am sure if you realized just the sort of a man he is you would not care to be his familiar friend.”
“I don’t want to be his familiar friend,” Gracie had said, haughtily. “I want to take a ride out to Katie’s with him when I have promised to do so.” And then her eyes had fallen under the calm of Marion’s searching gaze, and her tones had faltered. “At least I do not see that riding out with him is a proof of very great friendship. It is no more than I have done several times with my father’s permission.”
“But your father was deceived in him, Gracie; he had no means of knowing the sort of man he is, save by his professions, which have been nothing but professions for years. Gracie, I know that of him which should make every young girl unwilling to be seen in his society or considered his friend.”
Whereupon Gracie’s eyes had flashed indignation for a second, then settled into sullenness, while she answered, coldly:
“I should think my father ought to have been capable of judging character a little; he has had something to do with men and life. I do not know why I should not be able to trust myself to his judgment.”
Marion smiled. It was hard to be patient with this girl. The haughty way in which she retired behind her dignity and said, “My father,” seemed designed to shut Marion out from ownership in him, and impress her with the sense of the newness of her acquaintance with and entrance into the family.
“Gracie,” she said again, after a thoughtful pause, “it may not be known to you that there have been recent developments about Prof. Ellis that make him an undesirable friend for you. I know that, as your teacher, you have learned to look up to and respect him, but he is in some respects unworthy.”