They love each
other, but they do not know it. I know it, because my great love has
so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he nor she;
themselves, perhaps, but me never.
I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these passing
fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall not
disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to the
truth. No; I will let their fancy run its own course, trusting that
it may die before they become aware of its existence.
That is it; they do not know it yet, it is an unconscious
attraction. He loves me so firmly, he would never dream of
infidelity to me; yet, just at present, he is unfaithful in thought
and does not know it. Poor dear, if he knew, how miserable he would
be, how he would hate himself! And Constance, too. This is a cruel
thing, but I think I can bear it; it must pass because they love me
so much. It rests with me; I must be very wise. They are as
sleep-walkers; I must lead them from danger, patiently, tenderly. I
think I can keep calm.
_June 21st._--It comes to me almost as a miracle what one can bear.
It seems that a certainty, however terrible, hurts less cruelly than
doubt.
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