“I don't suppose you can talk to me now after such a strenuous evening,” she went on more emphatically. And as he maintained his silence, she continued with: “Oh, don't think I'm blind, Martin Wade. I know exactly how far this has gone and I know how far it can go.”
“What are you driving at?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean—the way you are behaving toward Rose.”
“Are you trying to imply that I'm carrying on with her?”
“I certainly am. I'm not angry, Martin. I never was calmer than I am right now, and I don't intend to say things just for the sake of saying them. I only want you to know that I have eyes, and that I don't want to be made a fool of.”
To her surprise, Martin came over to her and, looking at her steadily, returned with amazing candidness: “I'm not going to lie to you. You're perfectly welcome to know what's in my mind. I love her with every beat of my heart—she has brought something new into my life, something sacred—you've always thought I cared for nothing but work, that all I lived for was to plan and scheme how to make money. Haven't you? I don't blame you. It's what I've always believed, but tonight I've learned something.” Mrs. Wade could see his blood quicken. “She has been in this house only a few days and already I am alive with a new fire. It seems as if these hours are the only ones in which I have ever really lived—nothing else matters. Nothing! If there could be the slightest chance of my winning her love, of making her feel as I am feeling now, I'd build my world over again even if I had to tear all of the old one down.” Martin was now talking to himself, oblivious to his wife's presence, indifferent to her. “Happiness is waiting for me with her, with my little flower.”
“Your Rose of Sharon?” Her tone was biting.
“If only I could say that! My Rose of Sharon!” It seemed to Mrs. Wade that the very room quivered with his low cry that was almost a groan. “I know what you're thinking,” he went on, “but you know I have never loved you. You knew it when I married you, you must have.” The twisting agony of it—that he could make capital out of the very crux of all her suffering. “I have never deceived you and I never intend to. My life with you hasn't been a Song of Solomon, but I'm not complaining.”
“You're not complaining! I hope I won't start complaining, Martin.”
“Well, now you know how I feel. I'll go on with the present arrangement between us, but I'm playing square with you—it's because there's no hope for me. If I thought she cared for me, I would go to her, right now, tonight, and pour out my heart to her, wife or no wife. Oh, Rose, have pity! It can't do you any harm if I drink a little joy—don't spoil her faith in me! Don't frighten her away. I can't bear the thought of her going out into the world to work. She's like a gentle little doe feeding on lilies—she doesn't dream of the pitfalls ahead of her. And she will never know—she doesn't even suspect how I feel towards her. She will meet some young fellow in town and marry. I'm too old for her—but Rose, you don't understand what it means to me to have her in the same house, to know that she is sleeping so near, so beautiful, so ready for love; that when I wake up tomorrow she will still be here.”