Are the gods then really so anxious to destroy me? What have I done to deserve it?
This morning, after last night's interview with Pendleton, I saw Alicia—suddenly saw her as it seemed for the first time. And yet an overwhelming realization flooded me like a tidal wave that through countless ages she and she alone had been inexpressibly dear to me. She, the divine ideal I had been pursuing, catching fitful glimpses of in glades and forests, on mountain tops, in palaces, in fantastic surroundings, amid incredible scenes of a dim and ancient dream-life, more real than any reality—she was Alicia, this child Alicia.
And I am more than twice her age!
Nothing can come of it but misery and wretchedness for me. By no word or sign dare I convey such a thing to her or to any one else—to no one except these pale pages that receive my poor motley confidences with the only discretion I can trust.
She is dearer to me than all the worlds. Yet not only must I remain dumb but I must guard my every word, gesture, thought even, as never before.
In the midst of all else this is a catastrophe. Yet it overshadows and overbalances everything.
Let me disclose the truth by so much as a sign, and every act and motive of mine becomes abruptly suspect, and I shall stand revealed for the immoral, shameful creature that I suppose I am.
I could face that, I believe, if there were any possibility—but there isn't.
I must hide and cover and conquer the feeling by inanition. But how can I, when she is so untellably dear and precious to me?
No, no! A thousand times no! I cannot let Pendleton try to inveigle her to leave me. No!