The barouche stopped at the foot of the hill; the baronet and his wife
alighted, and walked up a woody pathway leading to the summit,
accompanied by Reginald, who left his horse with the servants.
They ascended the hill slowly, Lady Eversleigh leaning upon her
husband's arm. The pathway wound upward, through plantations of fir,
and it was only on the summit that the open country burst on the view
of the pedestrian. On the summit they found a gentleman seated on the
trunk of a fallen tree, sketching. A light portable colour-box lay open
by his side, and a small portfolio rested on his knees.
He seemed completely absorbed in his occupation, for he did not raise
his eyes from his work as Sir Oswald and his companions approached. He
wore a loose travelling dress, which, in its picturesque carelessness
of style, was not without elegance.
A horse was grazing under a group of firs near at hand, fastened to one
of the trees by the bridle.
This traveller was Victor Carrington.
"Carrington!" exclaimed Mr. Eversleigh; "whoever would have thought of
finding you up here? Sketching too!"
The surgeon lifted his head suddenly, looked at his friend, and burst
out laughing, as he rose to shake hands. He looked handsomer in his
artistic costume than ever Reginald Eversleigh had seen him look
before. The loose velvet coat, the wide linen collar and neckerchief of
dark-blue silk, set off the slim figure and pale foreign face.
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