LIX
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.”