Mary shuddered perceptibly, and said, "I shall never come to that I hope—that is, I fear."
"Don't be afraid of speaking out, my dear! I'm not thin-skinned—besides, I take pride in being cruel. I can hate. It would be well for you if you could. You will always suffer somewhat. You will have to keep a picture of your duty always before you, between you and the sight of the blood. You will have to work yourself up to blind enthusiasm every time you have work to do. I wouldn't wonder if you have to take to opium. It is not a bad temporary conscience-duller. But look how much more convenient my state of mind is. I don't require winding up. I have no scruples. I enjoy my work."
"And I loathe it," exclaimed the girl. "It is all a matter of temperament I suppose, Susan."
"I suppose it is," Susan continued. "Do you know, I have observed that most voluptuous women are cruel as well. It is a curious fact, Mary. I sometimes think that my nature is chiefly made up of these two noble qualities. My man used to call me Faustina. Now you are all made up of cold duties, and so you will suffer. Hot passions are better for the Nihilists."
Mary with difficulty concealed her feelings of disgust, and spoke again. "And yet I have known what hate is, how I hated my father and step-mother! How cruel I felt I could have been! But now that I am away from their persecution the hate seems to be all going. I even sometimes find myself thinking of my father with pity, wishing I could see him; yet he was always cruel to me."
"That sort of hate's no good. You are as fickle in your hates as I am in my loves. Yours was an artificial hate, such as a saint could acquire if ill-treated as you were. But mine is a good, genuine, natural hate, Mary, and I'm proud of it."
"Ah! I wish I could be brave, and fearless, and thoughtless like you, Susan."
"Do you?" cried Susan. "Perhaps I, too, have a skeleton hidden away in a cupboard, somewhere, my girl. You always see me jolly. Yes! if it were not for one horrid thing"—she spoke slowly and shivered—"I should be perfectly happy."
"What is that?" asked Mary, wondering what possible secret sorrow could be a constant bugbear to this frivolous being.
"The fear of old age, Mary," was the reply. "The dread of being old, ugly—like withered Sister Jane, for instance. Oh! how I fear that loathsome thing."