The Mayor of WarwickHopkins, Herbert M. (Herbert Müller)
General
The Mayor of Warwick
Hopkins, Herbert M. (Herbert Müller)
Mayors -- Fiction; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Social classes -- United States -- Fiction
Meanwhile the bishop was frittering the morning away by a desultory
attention to his correspondence, hoping each moment that Felicity would
pass the open door of his study. He was no longer a busy man, for the
onerous duties of his office were now taken by his coadjutor, and he
could well afford to wait. He did not know what he wished to say to
her, but he would see her face again and observe her manner, that he
might examine anew his grounds of suspicion. For him there were no
longer golden hours which it were a sin for others to filch from him.
In the sunset of his life he dreamed of the active labours of his
successors, of the institution which he would leave in a position to
feed more generously the ministry of the Church. Should he allow her
foolish fancy for a fortune hunter to divert her from the purpose he
hoped she would one day cherish? Even if a husband made no attempt to
dissuade her, a child would inevitably become an heir, and her plans
would be solely for him. Cold and austere by nature, he had married
his own position to wealth, and he felt no desire to perpetuate his
line under the name of another man. Above all, he shrunk from the
thought of his daughter's marriage as from a profanation. She was so
like him in certain mental traits and interests that he could not
appreciate the temperamental difference that kept them far apart.
As the hands of the clock crept toward eleven, he realised that the
morning was slipping away, and that he could wait no longer if he was
to see President Renshaw before he went to lunch. A few minutes later,
he stood in the hall, a distinguished and old-fashioned figure, with
his silk hat, his long cape, and his gold-headed ebony cane. Lena
Harpster was there, dusting an antique chair of ecclesiastical design
that looked as if it had been imported from the chancel of some English
cathedral.
"Lena," he said, laying his letters on the table and beginning to draw
on his gloves, "don't forget to give these to the postman when he
comes; and tell Miss Wycliffe I shall be home to lunch."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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