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The Mayor of Warwick   By: (1870-1910)

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THE MAYOR OF WARWICK

by

HERBERT M. HOPKINS

Author of "The Fighting Bishop"

[Frontispiece: "Have you noticed how silent it has grown?" he asked.]

Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1906 Copyright 1906 by Herbert M. Hopkins All Rights Reserved Published April 1906

TO PAULINE

CONTENTS

I. THE MEETING IN THE MAPLE WALK II. THE TOWER III. CARDINGTON IV. THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER V. THE CANDIDATE VI. LENA HARPSTER VII. THE STAR GAZERS VIII. "WHAT MAKES HER IN THE WOOD SO LATE?" IX. "HER HEART WAS OTHERWHERE" X. MISTRESS AND MAID XI. AT THE OLD CONTINENTAL XII. THE CONFESSION XIII. FURNITURE AND FAMILY XIV. THE PRESIDENT TAKES A HAND XV. "I PLUCKED THE ROSE, IMPATIENT OF DELAY" XVI. THE BLINDNESS OF THE BISHOP XVII. CONDITIONS XVIII. "TWO SISTER VESSELS" XIX. FATHER AND DAUGHTER XX. "PUNISHMENT, THOUGH LAME OF FOOT" XXI. THE MAYOR FINDS HIMSELF AT LAST

THE MAYOR OF WARWICK

CHAPTER I

THE MEETING IN THE MAPLE WALK

St George's Hall, situated on a high hill overlooking the city of Warwick, was still silent and tenantless, though the long vacation was drawing to a close. To a stranger passing that way for the first time, the building and the surrounding country would doubtless have suggested the old England rather than the new. There was something mediaeval in the massive, castellated tower that carried the eye upward past the great, arched doorway, the thin, deep set windows, the leaded eaves and grinning gargoyles, into the cool sky of the September morning.

The stranger, were he rich in good traditions, would pause in admiration of the pure collegiate gothic style of the low hall that extended north and south three hundred feet in either direction from the base of the great tower; he would note the artistry of the iron braced, oaken doors, flanked at the lintels by inscrutable faces of carven stone, of the windows with their diamonded panes of milky glass peeping through a wilderness of encroaching vines. Nor would this be all. Had he ever viewed the quadrangles of Oxford and Cambridge, he might be able to infer that here, on this sunny plateau above the hill, devoted men, steept in the traditions of old England, had endeavoured to reproduce the plan of one of her famous colleges.

He would see, perhaps, that only one side of the quadrangle was built, one fourth of the work done. Here, along the northern line, should be the chapel, its altar window facing the east; on the southern, the dining hall, adorned with rafters of dark oak and with portraits of the wise and great. To complete the plan, the remaining gap must be closed by a hall similar in style to the one already built.

He might picture himself standing in the midst of this beautiful creation of the imagination, taking in its architectural glories one by one, until his eye paused at the eastern gateway to note the distant landscape which it framed. And then, if he were in sympathy with the ideals of which this building was the outward expression, he would wake from his constructive reverie to realise sadly for the first time, not the beauty, but the incompleteness, of the institution; not its proximity to the city beyond, but its air of aloofness from the community in which it stood.

About ten o'clock of the morning in which this story begins, a stranger, not quite such an one as we have imagined, left the car at the foot of the long hill and turned his face for the first time towards St. George's Hall. As he passed up the shaded street along the northern side of the campus, his keen, blue grey eyes swept eagerly the crest on which stood the institution that was destined to be the scene of his professional labours for at least a year, perhaps for many years, it might be, for life. Even a casual glance at the tall, loosely hung figure of the young man, at his clean cut features and firm mouth, at the nervous, capable hand that grasped his walking stick as if it were a weapon, would reveal the type claimed by America as peculiarly her own... Continue reading book >>




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