Trebell. I guess that.
O'Connell. There's a dead woman between us, Mr. Trebell.
A tremor sweeps over Trebell; then he speaks simply.
Trebell. I wish she had not died.
O'Connell. I am called upon by your friends to save you from the consequences of her death. What have you to say about that?
Trebell. I have been wondering what sort of expression the last of your care for her would find ... but not much. My wonder is at the power over me that has been given to something I despised.
Only O'Connell grasps his meaning. But he, stirred for the first time and to his very depths, drives it home.
O'Connell. Yes.... If I wanted revenge I have it. She was a worthless woman. First my life and now yours! Dead because she was afraid to bear your child, isn't she?
Trebell. [In agony.] I'd have helped that if I could.
O'Connell. Not the shame ... not the wrong she had done me ... but just fear—fear of the burden of her woman-hood. And because of her my children are bastards and cannot inherit my name. And I must live in sin against my church, as—God help me—I can't against my nature. What are men to do when this is how women use the freedom we have given them? Is the curse of barrenness to be nothing to a man? And that's the death in life to which you gentlemen with your fine civilisation are bringing us. I think we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Trebell.