He felt sure that they were mother and son, in spite of the different names they bore, for there was a strong resemblance between them, although she had deported herself like a gracious and high-bred lady, while he was a veritable snob.
Probably, Clifford reasoned, she had been a widow, and had married a second time a man by the name of Temple, and he wondered if there was a Mr. Temple now living, and what he was like. But these people and things soon slipped from his mind, for, early the next morning, he left Cambridge for the White Mountains, where his ever-thoughtful friend, Professor Harding, had secured for him a position as head porter in a hotel, where he usually spent a portion of his summer with his family. Clifford found his friends already there, and was welcomed most cordially by them.
He found that his duties would be somewhat heavy, although they were not, on the whole, disagreeable, while they would give him a complete rest and change from the close mental application of the last ten months.
It is needless to say that he was most faithful in his new position, for it was his nature to do well whatever he had to do, and, before a fortnight had passed, the proprietor of the house, Mr. Hamilton, confided to Professor Harding that he had never before secured so efficient and gentlemanly a person for the place.
The guests, also, all seemed to appreciate him, for he was always courteous in his bearing, and attentive to their wants. He would never allow any loud talking or rough handling of baggage from the men who worked under him, while he managed to systematize everything connected with his department so that there was no confusion and seldom a mistake.
He had been there a little over a month, when one day, as he was returning from the post-office with the afternoon mail, he met with an adventure.
He rode a large and valuable bay horse that belonged to Mr. Hamilton, who, after he learned that Clifford knew how to handle horses, liked to have him exercise the animal occasionally. The day had been unusually warm, and Clifford was allowing his steed to make his own pace up a steep incline, while he read a letter which he had received from his good friend, Maria Kimberly, who was almost his only correspondent.
Upon reaching a small plateau he checked his steaming horse to allow him to rest before climbing the next ascent. He finished his letter, refolded and tucked it away in a pocket, then, removing his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he turned in his saddle to look back upon the valley behind and beneath him.
“What a view!” he said aloud, and with kindling eyes; “it is worth a great deal to have such a scene as this to look upon day after day, and nature paints the loveliest pictures, after all.” Then, with a glance above and beyond him, he continued: “And the hills! the everlasting hills! how wonderful they are! I have read somewhere that ‘rocks and mountains stand for the solid and grand ideas of Truth.’ It is a beautiful thought, and makes them a hundredfold more lovely to me. I believe I am receiving an inspiration this summer that will never leave me——”
“Ahem! you appear to be struck on the hills, Faxon,” a voice here interposed with a mocking inflection, and, glancing toward the spot from whence it seemed to proceed, Clifford saw to his astonishment the face of Philip Wentworth peering at him over a boulder that lay almost on the edge of the mountain road, and was half-concealed by a clump of sumac that was growing beside it.