The Mayor of Warwick

by Herbert M. Hopkins

What was the meaning of this strange interest which Felicity had taken in the career of a man normally beyond the radius of her acquaintance and sympathy? At first it had seemed a jest, then a sentimental charity maintained in foolish pride, but only recently had it created anything approaching estrangement between them. And this situation was the more difficult to bear because of their long intellectual and artistic companionship. She was more to him than a son, for he had a priestly appreciation of the subtlety of women. He had watched her mind unfold in foreign travel, little dreaming that this experience with him was sowing the seeds of discontent with her narrow environment which were now beginning to bear such bitter fruit. Something of a celibate by nature, he loved to think of her as an eternal priestess, who would consecrate herself and her fortune to the work of the Church.

Going back in his mind, he could date the acute stage of the present situation pretty accurately from the inception of her acquaintance with the young professor of mathematics. Leigh had disclosed a certain Western democracy that first evening, and had established immediately some sort of understanding with his hostess. The bishop had seen them together at Littleford's house, and had drawn his own conclusions. Divination of the hidden interests and emotions of others was one of his gifts, a gift he had so fostered that sometimes his moves in the intricate game of life were like strokes of genius. He did not doubt now that Leigh was in love with his daughter, and for the first time he was seriously doubtful of her attitude toward a young man. Proud and beautiful, she had always held herself aloof, with something of fine scorn, from the frock-coated, silk-hatted, conventional men of her acquaintance, as if she shared her father's opinion of her worth, as if she secretly sympathised with the plans she knew he cherished concerning the completion of the college quadrangle. Was she now to decline to the level of this fortune hunter, this crude young Westerner?

As for Cardington, of course he loved her, too; but the bishop knew her too well to suppose that the professor would ever captivate her imagination. He had always been within her horizon, and he served the useful purpose, from the bishop's point of view, of distracting her attention from more formidable aspirants.

That hour of reflection resulted in at least one definite resolve: Leigh's connection with the college should cease at the expiration of the year for which he was engaged. Meanwhile, the bishop might need a rest, and might take Felicity with him to Bermuda, leaving the affairs of the diocese in the hands of his coadjutor.

Having reached this conclusion, he became aware of the fact that the procession had long since passed, that the house was very still, and that Felicity had evidently retired to her room for the night. He got up and walked aimlessly out into the drawing-room, where the lights were turned low. He listened at the foot of the stairs, and thought to call her, but the silence seemed ominous, and for some reason he forbore. Was she really so deeply hurt that she would not return and bid him good-night? They had never been demonstrative, but neither were such affectionate courtesies ever omitted between them. He could not seek her now and demand an explanation. From such a scene he shrank instinctively. To-morrow he would begin on a new tack. He would relegate this absurd difference of opinion between them to the obscure corner it deserved, where he trusted it would soon die of neglect. It was indeed fortunate for the bishop's rest that night that his conjecture concerning his daughter's state of mind fell so far short of the truth.

When Lena Harpster left the dining-room at her mistress's command, she was in a condition bordering upon hysteria. Her burst of tears expressed the culmination of a long strain. She had dared to disobey her lover, driven to desperation by the increasing importunities of the young man of the house in which she served, and had fled to Miss Wycliffe's as to a refuge. But her letter of explanation to Emmet had remained unanswered. Was it not her love for him that had driven her to disobey? She even refrained from signing her appeal for pardon, as a concession to his desire for secrecy. Either he was too much absorbed, or his wrath was implacable, and a fortnight had passed without a sign. Would he seize this pretext, now that he had been elected mayor, to cast her off forever, as an impediment to his progress in the world? This doubt had so preyed upon her nerves that Miss Wycliffe was not far from the truth when she explained to her father that the maid was ill. But it was the vilification of her lover, to which she was forced to listen in silence, that had brought her emotions to a disastrous climax.

Once in her little room, she threw herself upon the bed and sobbed without restraint, but her abandonment to grief was short. She arose hastily and bathed her eyes in cold water, moved by the reflection that tears only served to mar her beauty, the sole dower she possessed. There came into her mind also the sudden resolve to go out and see the parade. She would stand near one of the electric lights, and perhaps her lover would see her and give some sign, a smile, a wave of the hand, whose significance would be known to them alone.

Fired by new hope, she discarded her apron and cap and donned her prettiest skirt. Then, standing in front of her little mirror, she applied a dash of colour to her pale cheeks with a few deft touches, spreading it into an appearance of nature with a bit of chamois skin. She opened the bureau drawer and threw a white silk waist upon the bed. But now a perplexing question arose. Which riband should she wear about her throat? She selected two, and laid them before her for consideration. This one she wore when he first kissed her; but the new one was prettier. Which would he prefer? Or was it possible that he would not see her at all in the crowd? While these thoughts ran through her mind, she smoothed her eyebrows with her pink little thumb, and paused to reflect that she would like to have a tiny eyebrow brush with an ivory handle, such an one as she had seen among the toilet articles on her mistress's dressing-table. Then she glanced at the ring on her finger which Emmet had given her, and for a while she forgot everything else, fixed in contemplation.

The ring was one whose peculiar value Lena was far from realising: a Maltese cross of old gold, set with four uncut emeralds. Seen by gaslight the stones lacked brilliancy, and she thought the ring itself awkward and heavy. From the first she had regarded the gift superstitiously, as if the dull green stones, like four dull eyes, emitted a baleful influence. It was significant of her utter lack of religious associations that the cross itself suggested no counter charm. Had she been a Catholic, that shape alone would have made the ring a talisman, but her people were Congregationalists, to whom religious symbols were anathema, and she herself had seldom gone to church. In fact, Lena was vaguely disappointed in the ring, and even ashamed of it. If her lover were as rich as he said, why had he not bought her a diamond? But repentance followed hard upon this questioning. The ring was not what she desired, but it was a pledge of his love, and she raised it to her lips.

She was in this attitude, her thin, white shoulders glimmering bare, a graceful and nymph-like figure, when a light tap at the door froze her into immobility, and then she saw her mistress's face reflected in the mirror. With a little cry of embarrassment, she turned and leaned against the bureau, lifting one hand with that instinctive gesture which Greek sculptors have immortalised in many a lovely statue.