Bertha frowned, finding it difficult to repress the sarcasm which rose to her lips; her forbearance was sorely tried. But Mr. Glover was a little undecided.
“We must be as thankful to God for the afflictions He sends as for the benefits,” he said at last.
“I am not a worm to crawl upon the ground and give thanks to the foot that crushes me.”
“I think that is blasphemous, Bertha,” said Miss Glover.
“Oh, I have no patience with you, Fanny,” said Bertha, raising herself, a flush lighting up her face. “Can you realise what I’ve gone through, the terrible pain of it? Oh, it was too awful. Even now when I think of it I almost scream.”
“It is by suffering that we rise to our higher self,” said Miss Glover. “Suffering is a fire that burns away the grossness of our material natures.”
“What rubbish you talk,” cried Bertha, passionately. “You can say that when you’ve never suffered. People say that suffering ennobles one; it’s a lie, it only makes one brutal.... But I would have borne it—for the sake of my child. It was all useless—utterly useless. Dr. Ramsay told me the child had been dead the whole time. Oh, if God made me suffer like that, it’s infamous. I wonder you’re not ashamed to put it down to God. How can you imagine Him to be so stupid, so cruel! Why, even the vilest beast in the slums wouldn’t cause a woman such frightful and useless agony for the mere pleasure of it.”
Miss Glover sprang to her feet. “Bertha, your illness is no excuse for this. You must either be mad, or utterly depraved and wicked.”
“No, I’m more charitable than you,” cried Bertha. “I know there is no God.”
“Then I, for one, can have nothing more to do with you.” Miss Glover’s cheeks were flaming, and a sudden indignation dispelled her habitual shyness.