THE AMERICAN
mind has been made up, as it is now, I should n't discuss these things. Discussing anything now is very vain and only a fresh torment. We must try and live each as we can. I believe you'll be happy again; even, sometimes, when you think of me. When you do so, think this—that it was not easy and that I did the best I could. I've things to reckon with that you don't know. I mean I've feelings. I must do as they force me—I must, I must. They 'd haunt me otherwise," she cried, with vehemence; "they 'd give me no rest and would kill me!"
"I know what your feelings are: they're perversities and superstitions! They're the feeling that after all, though I am a good fellow, I've been in business; the feeling that your mother's looks are law and your brother's words are gospel; that you all hang together and that it's a part of the everlasting great order, your order, that they should have a hand in everything you do. It makes my blood boil. That is cold; you're right. And what I feel here," and Newman struck his heart and became more eloquent than he knew, "is a glowing fire!"
A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintré's distracted wooer would have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising. On these last words of Newman's it overflowed, though at first she spoke low, for fear her voice might betray her. "No, I was not right—I 'm not cold! I believe that if I'm doing what seems so bad it's not mere weakness and falsity. My dear friend, my best of friends, it's like a religion.
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