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
As he climbed higher, the houses fell away, disclosing the bare hilltop
over which the road seemed to dip down and disappear; and though he
knew it could not be so, he was half expectant of the sea when he
should have lifted his head above the verge. Instead, he saw a wide
and shallow valley, rich in the varied products of the autumn, with
here and there a bare, reaped field, with many a white farmhouse and
barn of red or grey, till his eye followed the road to the western hill
line and noted a patch of small, white objects which might be a group
of boulders left by a prehistoric glacier, or the houses of a distant
town.
The view on the east, when he turned and faced in the direction from
which he had come, was one of greater interest and of no less beauty.
In the immediate foreground the city of Warwick, in which he had passed
the previous night, thrust its smoking factory chimneys, its spires and
towers, above the shining roofs and lofty elms. But the final element
of charm was found in a broad and sinuous river, blue as the reflected
sky, which flowed past the city's wharves, under a fine stone bridge,
and on through woodland and ploughed land to the sea. Small wonder
that he now forgot for a moment his own ambitions and plans, and
thought only that St. George's Hall lifted its head within an earthly
paradise!
The building, seen from the end, presented the same extraordinary
change that is to be noted when a long ocean steamship which has been
trailing across the horizon turns, shrinks, and comes bow on. In some
such proportion to its length was the width of the Hall; but the tower,
viewed from any angle, was still magnificent. With its four supporting
turrets it appeared rather a group of towers than a single structure.
His immediate curiosity satisfied, the young man now exchanged the
bright sunlight of the open for the comparative gloom of two long lines
of maples, which flanked a narrow board walk from the street to the
college. There was a prophecy of winter in the red and yellow leaves
that dropped slowly downward one by one, or descended in rustling
showers as a sudden gust of wind seized the thin branches and shook
them against the sky.
And now, as if to personify the spirit of the place, he saw the figure
of a young woman enter the walk from the other end, apparently from the
college building. As they approached each other, he noted the fact
that she was without hat or gloves, like a lady walking at ease through
her own estate, and he guessed that she had some peculiar proprietary
right in the premises. For one moment, in passing, he was startled to
encounter a cool and observant gaze; then her eyes dropped to the
collection of leaves which she held in her hands, as if she resumed an
interrupted study of their harmonious shades.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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