In the course of the afternoon of the following day, the old man, as
he was clearing away a quantity of _débris_ that choked the fire-grate
in the little room, heard a tap upon the closed shutters of the shop.
Supposing it to proceed from the hand of that blind agent of providence
to whom the world was so much indebted, he left his occupation and went
forth to open the door.
Upon the threshold of the shop he discovered an elderly, grizzled,
grey-bearded man, a total stranger to him. The face of the stranger was
of great resolution.
No sooner had the old man opened the door of the shop and beheld this
unexpected appearance, than the man upon the threshold looked into
his eyes. Suddenly he swept the hat from his head, and his grey hairs
fluttered in the icy January wind.
“I think, sir,” he said in a harsh, strange accent, which yet was that
of awe, “I think, sir, I stand in the presence of the poet.”
The old man recoiled a step from his visitor in mute surprise.
“Forgive me, sir,” said his visitor, “forgive the importunity of the
vulgar, but I am hardly to blame. I have come all the way from Aberdeen
to look upon the poet. You see, I have been a reviewer of books for the
_Caledonian Journal_ for fifty years, but a month ago I received a book
from which my pen has refrained. But I have not been able to refrain
my eyes from its author. To-day, upon my arrival from Aberdeen, I went
direct to the publishers, who at first even denied an acquaintance with
the poet’s name, but ultimately I found a young man in their office who
sent me here.”
“The poet is not I,” said the old man humbly.
The visitor appeared surprised and incredulous.
“If you are not the poet, sir,” he said, “I am sure you are a near
kinsman.”
The old man peered at the grim features of his visitor with his
half-blind eyes. “You appear to be simple and gentle,” he said softly.
“Perhaps you will follow.”
The old man led his visitor into the shop, into the little room, which
was now deserted, and thence up the stairs, into the small chamber
lighted with dim candles, in which the poet lay.
As soon as the visitor beheld that which was therein contained, he sank
to his knees by its side. He remained in that attitude a long while.
When he arose the aged man was gazing upon him with his half-blind
eyes. They confronted one another like a pair of children.
Suddenly the visitor leaned across the bed in an act of further homage
to the lifeless clay.
“Why do you do that?” said the white-haired man at his side.
“Why do I do this?” said the other, and his powerful spreading northern
speech appeared to strike the walls of the tiny chamber. “Why do I do
this? I am afraid, sir, it must be left to my great great grandchildren
to answer your question.”