May. That in our midst, home again, she would place the wanderer,——your comrade,——Matt Winsor.
Roy. May!
May. With all my heart I wish it, Roy. That man’s fate, the possibility of what he may have become, terrifies me. Think you I cannot feel how that wild act of mine has shadowed your existence. When he left, driven from your doors by me, something went out of our happy life, I would give the world to reclaim.
Roy. May, do you doubt my love for you?
May. No, no; not that Roy. Not one look of reproach: not one word, for what I have done, ever tender, thoughtful, patient. Oh, Roy, I do not deserve it. (Covers face with hands.)
Roy. May, you shall know all (walks to table). No, no, the secret is not mine. I must be patient; she must suffer. (Marcus looks up at him from paper). Well, what’s the matter with you?
Marcus. Manning, old fellow, I’m afraid you’re going over to the enemy. (Bess comes down back of table.)
Roy. It’s about time, when the enemy——as you style her——is a sweet, little woman, stung with remorse, and the attacking forces men, strong men, who ought to be ashamed of themselves: I don’t like it.
Marcus. Then strike your flag at once. There’s only one thing to prevent it.