Susan raised her brows in some surprise.
"I suppose as a pupil, and because my father paid for me," she said after a pause.
"You certainly came as a pupil, and most certainly also your father pays your school expenses. But in a select school of this sort there is generally a very strict inquiry instituted with regard to each girl who comes here. You were at another school before you came. You were at a school at Margate."
"How do you know that?" said Susan, and her voice became sharp with anxiety.
"I happen to know it. What is more, I had a letter from the head-mistress of that school telling me certain things about you. Oh, no, my dear, you need not turn so white; I have not the slightest wish to injure you with your schoolfellows; but after receiving that letter I wrote to your father declining to receive you as one of my pupils. He was much distressed. He is a good man. He came to see me, and he spoke of you as his orphan child; your mother was not long dead."
"No; mother died very suddenly," said Susan. Her words came out falteringly; in her unattractive eyes tears swam.
"Your father gave a pitiful picture with regard to his motherless girl, and after due reflection and consulting Jessie Jones, I decided to admit you to the school. Any girl who arrived at a school like this labeled as a black sheep might far better never come. I was therefore most anxious not to tell your schoolfellows anything whatever about you. Nor, shall I tell them now, Susan. No, I will not injure you to that extent; but unless Christian Mitford is happy and well by the end of the present term, and unless no further stories of your misdoings reach me, I shall expect your school life at Penwerne Manor to terminate at Easter. Have you anything to say, my dear?"
"I think you are awfully unkind. I hate you all. I wish I might go."
"You don't realize what it means, Susan. To have been already dismissed for want of honesty and truthfulness from school at Margate, and to be again dismissed—or practically dismissed—from Penwerne Manor, would injure you for life, my poor child. Be certain of this: nothing would induce me to make you so unhappy if it were not absolutely essential. It rests with yourself, Susan. A little courage and determination to cease to do evil, and to learn to do well, will make all things possible even for you. Now go. You leave a very anxious and unhappy head-mistress behind you; but when you can come to me and confess, I will certainly be as lenient as circumstances can permit."
"I will never, never confess," said Susan. "I have nothing to confess," she added sullenly, and she left the room, hanging her head, a scowl between her brows.