Only an Incident | Page 9

did, it is true, belong to the wrong Church, but there was a
strong suspicion among them that neither had this man sinned, nor his
parents, that he was born to so grievous a fate. It was rather his
misfortune. And as for the rest, he was thoroughly a gentleman; was
excellently well educated; and was, moreover, comely to look upon,
and eminently agreeable in his bearing. No; Joppa was far from
begrudging Mr. White his departure to the land of the blessed. It was

time the good old man went to his reward, they said.
And as to Mrs. Whittridge, Mr. Halloway's sister, who kept house for
him at the rectory, through all the length and the breadth of Joppa there
were no two opinions with regard to her. She was a woman of about
fifty, enough older than her brother to have been his mother, and she
seemed indeed to cherish almost a mother's idolatrous affection for him.
She had lost her husband many years before, and had been left with
considerable fortune and no family besides this one brother. So much
information, after repeated and unabashedly point-blank questions, had
the Joppites succeeded in extracting from Mr. Halloway, who with all
his apparent frankness was the most difficult person in the world ever
to be brought to talk of himself and his own affairs. But just to see Mrs.
Whittridge, with her sweet face and perfect manners, was to recognize
her at once for a gentlewoman in every sense of the word, while to be
in her society, if but for ten minutes, was to come very nearly to loving
her. The Joppites saw but one fault in her; she did not and would not
visit. All who sought her out were made more than welcome; but
whether from the extreme delicacy of her health, which rendered
visiting a burden, or because of her widow's dress of deepest mourning,
which she had never laid aside, it came to be an accepted thing that she
went nowhere. It was a great disappointment in Joppa; nevertheless it
was impossible to harbor ill-will toward this lovely, high-bred lady,
who drew all hearts to herself by the very way she had of seeming
never to think of herself at all. She won Phebe Lane's affection at once
and forever with almost her first words, spoken in the low, clear, sweet
tones that sounded always like Sunday-night's music.
"Do you know, Mr. Halloway," Phebe said to him one day, "I think it
does me more good only to hear your sister's voice than to listen to the
very best sermon ever preached."
"Miss Phebe," he rejoined, with a merry twinkle in his brown eyes, "if
you propagate that doctrine largely, I am a ruined man. I must hold you
over to eternal secrecy. But as regards the fact,--there is my hand,--I am
quite of your way of thinking! I am persuaded an angel's voice got into
Soeur Angélique by mistake." Mrs. Whittridge's baptismal name was

Angelica, but to her brother she had always been "Soeur Angélique"
and nothing else.
"Yes, and an angel's soul too," said Phebe.
"Even that," replied Mr. Halloway. "She is all and more than you can
possibly imagine that she is. But I positively forbid your putting her up
on a pedestal and worshipping her. In the first place, too great a sense
of her own holiness might mar her present admirable but purely earthly
management of our little household, thus seriously interfering with my
comforts. And in the second place, I feel it my duty to warn you from a
habit of canonization, which, if too extensively indulged in, will
inevitably warp your powers of frank and right judgment."
Phebe laughed, but did not forget.
One afternoon, some time later, she was at the rectory, whither she had
gone, at Mrs. Whittridge's request, to explain a new and intricate
embroidery stitch. They were upstairs in that lady's charming little
sitting-room, Phebe on a low stool by her friend's side, and Halloway
had just come in from a round of parochial visits and joined them there.
"Mrs. Whittridge," said Phebe, suddenly, "do you think it is possible to
care too much for one's friends? Mr. Halloway says one can. I know he
means that I do."
Mrs. Whittridge laid her hand caressingly on the girl's bonny brown
hair. "How can I judge, my child? I do not even know who your friends
are."
"Who are they, in fact?" said Denham, drawing up a chair and seating
himself in front of the group by the table. "Oh, Miss Phebe is friends
with the entire village in a way. They all call her 'Phebe,' and keep
accurate track of her birthdays, from Dick Hardcastle up. And I am sure
she hasn't an enemy