[_The events, which took place on November 23, 186-, are narrated by
Reuben Cartwright, Esq., of Bleakirk Hall, Bleakirk-on-Sands, in the
North Riding of Yorkshire_.]
A rough, unfrequented bridle-road rising and dipping towards the
coast, with here and there a glimpse of sea beyond the sad-coloured
moors: straight overhead, a red and wintry sun just struggling to
assert itself: to right and left, a stretch of barren down still
coated white with hoar-frost.
I had flung the reins upon my horse's neck, and was ambling
homewards. Between me and Bleakirk lay seven good miles, and we had
come far enough already on the chance of the sun's breaking through;
but as the morning wore on, so our prospect of hunting that day faded
further from us. It was now high noon, and I had left the hunt half
an hour ago, turned my face towards the coast, and lit a cigar to
beguile the way. When a man is twenty-seven he begins to miss the
fun of shivering beside a frozen cover.
The road took a sudden plunge among the spurs of two converging
hills. As I began to descend, the first gleam of sunshine burst from
the dull heaven and played over the hoar-frost. I looked up, and
saw, on the slope of the hill to the right, a horseman also
descending.
At first glance I took him for a brother sportsman who, too, had
abandoned hope of a fox. But the second assured me of my mistake.
The stranger wore a black suit of antique, clerical cut, a shovel
hat, and gaiters; his nag was the sorriest of ponies, with a shaggy
coat of flaring yellow, and so low in the legs that the broad flaps
of its rider's coat all but trailed on the ground. A queerer turnout
I shall never see again, though I live to be a hundred.
He appeared not to notice me, but pricked leisurably down the slope,
and I soon saw that, as our paths ran and at the pace we were going,
we should meet at the foot of the descent: which we presently did.
"Ah, indeed!" said the stranger, reining in his pony as though now
for the first time aware of me: "I wish you a very good day, sir.
We are well met."
He pulled off his hat with a fantastic politeness. For me, my
astonishment grew as I regarded him more closely. A mass of lanky,
white hair drooped on either side of a face pale, pinched, and
extraordinarily wrinkled; the clothes that wrapped his diminutive
body were threadbare, greasy, and patched in all directions.
Fifty years' wear could not have worsened them; and, indeed, from the
whole aspect of the man, you might guess him a century old, were it
not for the nimbleness of his gestures and his eyes, which were grey,
alert, and keen as needles.