[She sits down heavily in an armchair. Beatrice comes towards her.]
BEATRICE.
[Weakly.] But do you not feel also that Mr Rowan’s ideas...
BERTHA.
[Bitterly.] Ideas and ideas! But the people in this world have other ideas or pretend to. They have to put up with him in spite of his ideas because he is able to do something. Me, no. I am nothing.
BEATRICE.
You stand by his side.
BERTHA.
[With increasing bitterness.] Ah, nonsense, Miss Justice! I am only a thing he got entangled with and my son is—the nice name they give those children. Do you think I am a stone? Do you think I don’t see it in their eyes and in their manner when they have to meet me?
BEATRICE.
Do not let them humble you, Mrs Rowan.
BERTHA.
[Haughtily.] Humble me! I am very proud of myself, if you want to know. What have they ever done for him? I made him a man. What are they all in his life? No more than the dirt under his boots! [She stands up and walks excitedly to and fro.] He can despise me, too, like the rest of them—now. And you can despise me. But you will never humble me, any of you.
BEATRICE.
Why do you accuse me?
BERTHA.
[Going to her impulsively.] I am in such suffering. Excuse me if I was rude. I want us to be friends. [She holds out her hands.] Will you?
BEATRICE.
[Taking her hands.] Gladly.