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Wrexford realised, but she could find out nothing by questioning Angela. Every time she asked her anything relative to her attitude Angela was silent. One day she begged Mrs. Wrexford never to speak of her brother again. Mrs. Wrexford respected her wishes and watched her and nursed her through her convalescence with a tender solicitude. When O'Connell's letter came, Angela showed it to Mrs.
"But don't you think it would be indiscreet, dear, to have such a man come here?" "Why indiscreet?" "A man who has been in prison!" and Mrs. Wrexford shuddered at the thought. She had seen and helped so many poor victims of the cruel laws, and the memory of their drawn faces and evil eyes, and coarse speech, flashed across her mind. She could not reconcile one coming into her little home.
When they reached London she refused to go to the Kingsnorth house, where her brother lived, but went at once to a distant cousin of her mother's Mrs. Wrexford and made her home with her, as she had often done before. She refused to hold any further communication with her brother, despite the ministrations of her sister Monica and Mrs. Wrexford. Mrs.
"Always your affectionate cousin," "Mary Caroline Wrexford." Kingsnorth's head sank on to his breast. Every bit of life left him. Everything about his feet. Ashes. The laughing-stock of his friends. Were Angela there at that moment he could have killed her. The humiliation of it! The degradation of it! Married to that lawless Irish agitator. The man now a member of his family!
DEAR MR. EMANUEL FLOWER, It was kind of you to think of sending me a copy of your new book. It would have been kinder still to think again and abandon that project. On the other hand, I am determined that you shall not be able to go around boasting to your friends, if you have any, that this work was not condemned, derided, and dismissed by your sincere well-wisher, WREXFORD CRIPPS.
Wrexford, together with her reply. "Do you mind if I see him here?" Angela asked. "What kind of man is he?" "The kind that heroes are made of." "He writes so strangely may, one say unreservedly? Is he a gentleman?" "In the real meaning of the word yes." "Of good family?" "Not as we estimate goodness. His family were just simple peasants." "Do you think it wise to see him?"
"I don't consider the wisdom. I only listen to my heart." "Do you mean that you care for him?" "I do." "You you love him?" "So much of love as I can give is his." "Oh, my dear!" cried Mrs. Wrexford, thoroughly alarmed. "Don't be afraid," said Angela, quietly. "Our ways lie wide apart. He is working for the biggest thing in life. His work IS his life. I am nothing."
Wrexford was a gentle little white-capped widow whose only happiness in life seemed to be in worrying over others' misfortunes. She was on the board of various charitable organisations and was a busy helper in the field of mercy. She worshipped Angela, as she had her mother before her. That something serious had occurred between Angela and her brother Mrs.
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