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Mr. Arthur Fernlee Markam, who took what was known as the Red House above
the Mains of Crooken, was a London merchant, and being essentially a
cockney, thought it necessary when he went for the summer holidays to
Scotland to provide air entire rig-out as a Highland chieftain, as
manifested in chromolithographs and on the music-hall stage. He had once
seen in the Empire the Great Prince--'The Bounder King'--bring down the
house by appearing as 'The MacSlogan of that Ilk,' and singing the
celebrated Scotch song, 'There's naething like haggis to mak a mon dry!'
and he had ever since preserved in his mind a faithful image of the
picturesque and warlike appearance which he presented. Indeed, if the
true inwardness of Mr. Markam's mind on the subject of his selection of
Aberdeenshire as a summer resort were known, it would be found that in
the foreground of the holiday locality which his fancy painted stalked
the many hued figure of the MacSlogan of that Ilk. However, be this as
it may, a very kind fortune--certainly so far as external beauty was
concerned--led him to the choice of Crooken Bay. It is a lovely spot,
between Aberdeen and Peterhead, just under the rock-bound headland
whence the long, dangerous reefs known as The Spurs run out into the
North Sea. Between this and the 'Mains of Crooken'--a village sheltered
by the northern cliffs--lies the deep bay, backed with a multitude of
bent-grown dunes where the rabbits are to be found in thousands. Thus at
either end of the bay is a rocky promontory, and when the dawn or the
sunset falls on the rocks of red syenite the effect is very lovely. The
bay itself is floored with level sand and the tide runs far out, leaving
a smooth waste of hard sand on which are dotted here and there the stake
nets and bag nets of the salmon fishers. At one end of the bay there is
a little group or cluster of rocks whose heads are raised something
above high water, except when in rough weather the waves come over them
green. At low tide they are exposed down to sand level; and here is
perhaps the only little bit of dangerous sand on this part of the
eastern coast. Between the rocks, which are apart about some fifty feet,
is a small quicksand, which, like the Goodwins, is dangerous only with
the incoming tide. It extends outwards till it is lost in the sea, and
inwards till it fades away in the hard sand of the upper beach. On the
slope of the hill which rises beyond the dunes, midway between the Spurs
and the Port of Crooken, is the Red House. It rises from the midst of a
clump of fir-trees which protect it on three sides, leaving the whole
sea front open. A trim old-fashioned garden stretches down to the
roadway, on crossing which a grassy path, which can be used for light
vehicles, threads a way to the shore, winding amongst the sand hills.
When the Markam family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six
hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer _Ban Righ_ from Blackwall,
with the subsequent train to Yellon and drive of a dozen miles, they all
agreed that they had never seen a more delightful spot. The general
satisfaction was more marked as at that very time none of the family
were, for several reasons, inclined to find favourable anything or any
place over the Scottish border. Though the family was a large one, the
prosperity of the business allowed them all sorts of personal luxuries,
amongst which was a wide latitude in the way of dress. The frequency of
the Markam girls' new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom friends
and of joy to themselves.
Arthur Fernlee Markam had not taken his family into his confidence
regarding his new costume. He was not quite certain that he should be
free from ridicule, or at least from sarcasm, and as he was sensitive on
the subject, he thought it better to be actually in the suitable
environment before he allowed the full splendour to burst upon them. He
had taken some pains, to insure the completeness of the Highland
costume. For the purpose he had paid many visits to 'The Scotch All-Wool
Tartan Clothing Mart' which had been lately established in
Copthall-court by the Messrs. MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu. He had
anxious consultations with the head of the firm--MacCallum as he called
himself, resenting any such additions as 'Mr.' or 'Esquire.' The known
stock of buckles, buttons, straps, brooches and ornaments of all kinds
were examined in critical detail; and at last an eagle's feather of
sufficiently magnificent proportions was discovered, and the equipment
was complete. It was only when he saw the finished costume, with the
vivid hues of the tartan seemingly modified into comparative sobriety by
the multitude of silver fittings, the cairngorm brooches, the philibeg,
dirk and sporran that he was fully and absolutely satisfied with his
choice. At first he had thought of the Royal Stuart dress tartan, but
abandoned it on the MacCallum pointing out that if he should happen to
be in the neighbourhood of Balmoral it might lead to complications. The
MacCallum, who, by the way, spoke with a remarkable cockney accent,
suggested other plaids in turn; but now that the other question of
accuracy had been raised, Mr. Markam foresaw difficulties if he should
by chance find himself in the locality of the clan whose colours he had
usurped. The MacCallum at last undertook to have, at Markam's expense, a
special pattern woven which would not be exactly the same as any
existing tartan, though partaking of the characteristics of many. It was
based on the Royal Stuart, but contained suggestions as to simplicity of
pattern from the Macalister and Ogilvie clans, and as to neutrality of
colour from the clans of Buchanan, Macbeth, Chief of Macintosh and
Macleod. When the specimen had been shown to Markam he had feared
somewhat lest it should strike the eye of his domestic circle as gaudy;
but as Roderick MacDhu fell into perfect ecstasies over its beauty he
did not make any objection to the completion of the piece. He thought,
and wisely, that if a genuine Scotchman like MacDhu liked it, it must be
right--especially as the junior partner was a man very much of his own
build and appearance. When the MacCallum was receiving his
cheque--which, by the way, was a pretty stiff one--he remarked:
'I've taken the liberty of having some more of the stuff woven in case
you or any of your friends should want it.' Markam was gratified, and
told him that he should be only too happy if the beautiful stuff which
they had originated between them should become a favourite, as he had no
doubt it would in time. He might make and sell as much as he would.
Markam tried the dress on in his office one evening after the clerks had
all gone home. He was pleased, though a little frightened, at the
result. The MacCallum had done his work thoroughly, and there was
nothing omitted that could add to the martial dignity of the wearer.
'I shall not, of course, take the claymore and the pistols with me on
ordinary occasions,' said Markam to himself as he began to undress. He
determined that he would wear the dress for the first time on landing in
Scotland, and accordingly on the morning when the _Ban Righ_ was hanging
off the Girdle Ness lighthouse, waiting for the tide to enter the port
of Aberdeen, he emerged from his cabin in all the gaudy splendour of his
new costume. The first comment he heard was from one of his own sons,
who did not recognise him at first.
'Here's a guy! Great Scott! It's the governor!' And the boy fled
forthwith and tried to bury his laughter under a cushion in the saloon.
Markam was a good sailor and had not suffered from the pitching of the
boat, so that his naturally rubicund face was even more rosy by the
conscious blush which suffused his cheeks when he had found himself at
once the cynosure of all eyes. He could have wished that he had not been
so bold for he knew from the cold that there was a big bare spot under
one side of his jauntily worn Glengarry cap. However, he faced the group
of strangers boldly. He was not, outwardly, upset even when some of the
comments reached his ears.
'He's off his bloomin' chump,' said a cockney in a suit of exaggerated
plaid.
'There's flies on him,' said a tall thin Yankee, pale with sea-sickness,
who was on his way to take up his residence for a time as close as he
could get to the gates of Balmoral.
'Happy thought! Let us fill our mulls; now's the chance!' said a young
Oxford man on his way home to Inverness. But presently Mr. Markam heard
the voice of his eldest daughter.
'Where is he? Where is he?' and she came tearing along the deck with her
hat blowing behind her. Her face showed signs of agitation, for her
mother had just been telling her of her father's condition; but when she
saw him she instantly burst into laughter so violent that it ended in a
fit of hysterics. Something of the same kind happened to each of the
other children. When they had all had their turn Mr. Markam went to his
cabin and sent his wife's maid to tell each member of the family that he
wanted to see them at once. They all made their appearance, suppressing
their feelings as well as they could. He said to them very quietly:
'My dears, don't I provide you all with ample allowances?'
'Yes, father!' they all answered gravely, 'no one could be more
generous!'
'Don't I let you dress as you please?'
'Yes, father!'--this a little sheepishly.
'Then, my dears, don't you think it would be nicer and kinder of you not
to try and make me feel uncomfortable, even if I do assume a dress which
is ridiculous in your eyes, though quite common enough in the country
where we are about to sojourn?' There was no answer except that which
appeared in their hanging heads. He was a good father and they all knew
it. He was quite satisfied and went on:
'There, now, run away and enjoy yourselves! We shan't have another word
about it.' Then he went on deck again and stood bravely the fire of
ridicule which he recognised around him, though nothing more was said
within his hearing.
The astonishment and the amusement which his get-up occasioned on the
_Ban Righ_ was, however, nothing to that which it created in Aberdeen.
The boys and loafers, and women with babies, who waited at the landing
shed, followed _en masse_ as the Markam party took their way to the
railway station; even the porters with their old-fashioned knots and
their new-fashioned barrows, who await the traveller at the foot of the
gang-plank, followed in wondering delight. Fortunately the Peterhead
train was just about to start, so that the martyrdom was not
unnecessarily prolonged. In the carriage the glorious Highland costume
was unseen, and as there were but few persons at the station at Yellon,
all went well there. When, however, the carriage drew near the Mains of
Crooken and the fisher folk had run to their doors to see who it was
that was passing, the excitement exceeded all bounds. The children with
one impulse waved their bonnets and ran shouting behind the carriage;
the men forsook their nets and their baiting and followed; the women
clutched their babies, and followed also. The horses were tired after
their long journey to Yellon and back, and the hill was steep, so that
there was ample time for the crowd to gather and even to pass on ahead.
Mrs. Markam and the elder girls would have liked to make some protest or
to do something to relieve their feelings of chagrin at the ridicule
which they saw on all faces, but there was a look of fixed determination
on the face of the seeming Highlander which awed them a little, and they
were silent. It might have been that the eagle's feather, even when
arising above the bald head, the cairngorm brooch even on the fat
shoulder, and the claymore, dirk and pistols, even when belted round the
extensive paunch and protruding from the stocking on the sturdy calf,
fulfilled their existence as symbols of martial and terrifying import!
When the party arrived at the gate of the Red House there awaited them a
crowd of Crooken inhabitants, hatless and respectfully silent; the
remainder of the population was painfully toiling up the hill. The
silence was broken by only one sound, that of a man with a deep voice.
'Man! but he's forgotten the pipes!'
The servants had arrived some days before, and all things were in
readiness. In the glow consequent on a good lunch after a hard journey
all the disagreeables of travel and all the chagrin consequent on the
adoption of the obnoxious costume were forgotten.
That afternoon Markam, still clad in full array, walked through the
Mains of Crooken. He was all alone, for, strange to say, his wife and
both daughters had sick headaches, and were, as he was told, lying down
to rest after the fatigue of the journey. His eldest son, who claimed to
be a young man, had gone out by himself to explore the surroundings of
the place, and one of the boys could not be found. The other boy, on
being told that his father had sent for him to come for a walk, had
managed--by accident, of course--to fall into the water butt, and had to
be dried and rigged out afresh. His clothes not having been as yet
unpacked this was of course impossible without delay.
Mr. Markam was not quite satisfied with his walk. He could not meet any
of his neighbours. It was not that there were not enough people about,
for every house and cottage seemed to be full; but the people when in
the open were either in their doorways some distance behind him, or on
the roadway a long distance in front. As he passed he could see the tops
of heads and the whites of eyes in the windows or round the corners of
doors. The only interview which he had was anything but a pleasant one.
This was with an odd sort of old man who was hardly ever heard to speak
except to join in the 'Amens' in the meeting-house. His sole occupation
seemed to be to wait at the window of the post-office from eight o'clock
in the morning till the arrival of the mail at one, when he carried the
letter-bag to a neighbouring baronial castle. The remainder of his day
was spent on a seat in a draughty part of the port, where the offal of
the fish, the refuse of the bait, and the house rubbish was thrown, and
where the ducks were accustomed to hold high revel.
When Saft Tammie beheld him coming he raised his eyes, which were
generally fixed on the nothing which lay on the roadway opposite his
seat, and, seeming dazzled as if by a burst of sunshine, rubbed them and
shaded them with his hand. Then he started up and raised his hand aloft
in a denunciatory manner as he spoke:--
'"Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. All is vanity." Mon, be warned
in time! "Behold the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they
spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."
Mon! Mon! Thy vanity is as the quicksand which swallows up all which
comes within its spell. Beware vanity! Beware the quicksand, which
yawneth for thee, and which will swallow thee up! See thyself! Learn
thine own vanity! Meet thyself face to face, and then in that moment
thou shalt learn the fatal force of thy vanity. Learn it, know it, and
repent ere the quicksand swallow thee!' Then without another word he
went back to his seat and sat there immovable and expressionless as
before.
Markam could not but feel a little upset by this tirade. Only that it
was spoken by a seeming madman, he would have put it down to some
eccentric exhibition of Scottish humour or impudence; but the gravity of
the message--for it seemed nothing else--made such a reading impossible.
He was, however, determined not to give in to ridicule, and although he
had not yet seen anything in Scotland to remind him even of a kilt, he
determined to wear his Highland dress. When he returned home, in less
than half-an-hour, he found that every member of the family was, despite
the headaches, out taking a walk. He took the opportunity afforded by
their absence of locking himself in his dressing-room, took off the
Highland dress, and, putting on a suit of flannels, lit a cigar and had
a snooze. He was awakened by the noise of the family coming in, and at
once donning his dress made his appearance in the drawing-room for tea.
He did not go out again that afternoon; but after dinner he put on his
dress again--he had, of course dressed for dinner as usual--and went by
himself for a walk on the sea-shore. He had by this time come to the
conclusion that he would get by degrees accustomed to the Highland dress
before making it his ordinary wear. The moon was up and he easily
followed the path through the sand-hills, and shortly struck the shore.
The tide was out and the beach firm as a rock, so he strolled southwards
to nearly the end of the bay. Here he was attracted by two isolated
rocks some little way out from the edge of the dunes, so he strolled
towards them. When he reached the nearest one he climbed it, and,
sitting there elevated some fifteen or twenty feet over the waste of
sand, enjoyed the lovely, peaceful prospect. The moon was rising behind
the headland of Pennyfold, and its light was just touching the top of
the furthermost rock of the Spurs some three-quarters of a mile out; the
rest of the rocks were in dark shadow. As the moon rose over the
headland, the rocks of the Spurs and then the beach by degrees became
flooded with light.
For a good while Mr. Markam sat and looked at the rising moon and the
growing area of light which followed its rise. Then he turned and faced
eastwards and sat with his chin in his hand looking seawards, and
revelling in the peace and beauty and freedom of the scene. The roar of
London--the darkness and the strife and weariness of London life--seemed
to have passed quite away, and he lived at the moment a freer and higher
life. He looked at the glistening water as it stole its way over the
flat waste of sand, coming closer and closer insensibly--the tide had
turned. Presently he heard a distant shouting along the beach very far
off.
'The fishermen calling to each other,' he said to himself and looked
around. As he did so he got a horrible shock, for though just then a
cloud sailed across the moon he saw, in spite of the sudden darkness
around him, his own image. For an instant, on the top of the opposite
rock he could see the bald back of the head and the Glengarry cap with
the immense eagle's feather. As he staggered back his foot slipped, and
he began to slide down towards the sand between the two rocks. He took
no concern as to failing, for the sand was really only a few feet below
him, and his mind was occupied with the figure or simulacrum of himself,
which had already disappeared. As the easiest way of reaching _terra
firma_ he prepared to jump the remainder of the distance. All this had
taken but a second, but the brain works quickly, and even as he gathered
himself for the spring he saw the sand below him lying so marbly level
shake and shiver in an odd way. A sudden fear overcame him; his knees
failed, and instead of jumping he slid miserably down the rock,
scratching his bare legs as he went. His feet touched the sand--went
through it like water--and he was down below his knees before he
realised that he was in a quicksand. Wildly he grasped at the rock to
keep himself from sinking further, and fortunately there was a jutting
spur or edge which he was able to grasp instinctively. To this he clung
in grim desperation. He tried to shout, but his breath would not come,
till after a great effort his voice rang out. Again he shouted, and it
seemed as if the sound of his own voice gave him new courage, for he was
able to hold on to the rock for a longer time than he thought
possible--though he held on only in blind desperation. He was, however,
beginning to find his grasp weakening, when, joy of joys! his shout was
answered by a rough voice from just above him.
'God be thankit, I'm nae too late!' and a fisherman with great
thigh-boots came hurriedly climbing over the rock. In an instant he
recognised the gravity of the danger, and with a cheering 'Haud fast,
mon! I'm comin'!' scrambled down till he found a firm foothold. Then
with one strong hand holding the rock above, he leaned down, and
catching Markam's wrist, called out to him, 'Haud to me, mon! Haud to me
wi' ither hond!'
Then he lent his great strength, and with a steady, sturdy pull, dragged
him out of the hungry quicksand and placed him safe upon the rock.
Hardly giving him time to draw breath, he pulled and pushed him--never
letting him go for an instant--over the rock into the firm sand beyond
it, and finally deposited him, still shaking from the magnitude of his
danger, high upon the beach. Then he began to speak:
'Mon! but I was just in time. If I had no laucht at yon foolish lads and
begun to rin at the first you'd a bin sinkin' doon to the bowels o' the
airth be the noo! Wully Beagrie thocht you was a ghaist, and Tom
MacPhail swore ye was only like a goblin on a puddick-steel! "Na!" said
I. "Yon's but the daft Englishman--the loony that had escapit frae the
waxwarks." I was thinkin' that bein' strange and silly--if not a
whole-made feel--ye'd no ken the ways o' the quicksan'! I shouted till
warn ye, and then ran to drag ye aff, if need be. But God be thankit, be
ye fule or only half-daft wi' yer vanity, that I was no that late!' and
he reverently lifted his cap as he spoke.
Mr. Markam was deeply touched and thankful for his escape from a
horrible death; but the sting of the charge of vanity thus made once
more against him came through his humility. He was about to reply
angrily, when suddenly a great awe fell upon him as he remembered the
warning words of the half-crazy letter-carrier: 'Meet thyself face to
face, and repent ere the quicksand shall swallow thee!'
Here, too, he remembered the image of himself that he had seen and the
sudden danger from the deadly quicksand that had followed. He was silent
a full minute, and then said:
'My good fellow, I owe you my life!'
The answer came with reverence from the hardy fisherman, 'Na! Na! Ye owe
that to God; but, as for me, I'm only too glad till be the humble
instrument o' His mercy.'
'But you will let me thank you,' said Mr. Markam, taking both the great
hands of his deliverer in his and holding them tight. 'My heart is too
full as yet, and my nerves are too much shaken to let me say much; but,
believe me, I am very, very grateful!' It was quite evident that the
poor old fellow was deeply touched, for the tears were running down his
cheeks.
The fisherman said, with a rough but true courtesy:
'Ay, sir! thank me and ye will--if it'll do yer poor heart good. An' I'm
thinking that if it were me I'd be thankful too. But, sir, as for me I
need no thanks. I am glad, so I am!'
That Arthur Fernlee Markam was really thankful and grateful was shown
practically later on. Within a week's time there sailed into Port
Crooken the finest fishing smack that had ever been seen in the harbour
of Peterhead. She was fully found with sails and gear of all kinds, and
with nets of the best. Her master and men went away by the coach, after
having left with the salmon-fisher's wife the papers which made her over
to him.
As Mr. Markam and the salmon-fisher walked together along the shore the
former asked his companion not to mention the fact that he had been in
such imminent danger, for that it would only distress his dear wife and
children. He said that he would warn them all of the quicksand, and for
that purpose he, then and there, asked questions about it till he felt
that his information on the subject was complete. Before they parted he
asked his companion if he had happened to see a second figure, dressed
like himself on the other rock as he had approached to succour him.
'Na! Na!' came the answer, 'there is nae sic another fule in these
parts. Nor has there been since the time o' Jamie Fleeman--him that was
fule to the Laird o' Udny. Why, mon! sic a heathenish dress as ye have
on till ye has nae been seen in these pairts within the memory o' mon.
An' I'm thinkin' that sic a dress never was for sittin' on the cauld
rock, as ye done beyont. Mon! but do ye no fear the rheumatism or the
lumbagy wi' floppin' doon on to the cauld stanes wi' yer bare flesh? I
was thinking that it was daft ye waur when I see ye the mornin' doon be
the port, but it's fule or eediot ye maun be for the like o' thot!' Mr.
Markam did not care to argue the point, and as they were now close to
his own home he asked the salmon-fisher to have a glass of whisky--which
he did--and they parted for the night. He took good care to warn all his
family of the quicksand, telling them that he had himself been in some
danger from it.
All that night he never slept. He heard the hours strike one after the
other; but try how he would he could not get to sleep. Over and over
again he went through the horrible episode of the quicksand, from the
time that Saft Tammie had broken his habitual silence to preach to him
of the sin of vanity and to warn him. The question kept ever arising in
his mind: 'Am I then so vain as to be in the ranks of the foolish?' and
the answer ever came in the words of the crazy prophet: '"Vanity of
vanities! All is vanity." Meet thyself face to face, and repent ere the
quicksand shall swallow thee!' Somehow a feeling of doom began to shape
itself in his mind that he would yet perish in that same quicksand, for
there he had already met himself face to face.
In the grey of the morning he dozed off, but it was evident that he
continued the subject in his dreams, for he was fully awakened by his
wife, who said:
'Do sleep quietly! That blessed Highland suit has got on your brain.
Don't talk in your sleep, if you can help it!' He was somehow conscious
of a glad feeling, as if some terrible weight had been lifted from him,
but he did not know any cause of it. He asked his wife what he had said
in his sleep, and she answered:
'You said it often enough, goodness knows, for one to remember it--"Not
face to face! I saw the eagle plume over the bald head! There is hope
yet! Not face to face!" Go to sleep! Do!' And then he did go to sleep,
for he seemed to realise that the prophecy of the crazy man had not yet
been fulfilled. He had not met himself face to face--as yet at all
events.
He was awakened early by a maid who came to tell him that there was a
fisherman at the door who wanted to see him. He dressed himself as
quickly as he could--for he was not yet expert with the Highland
dress--and hurried down, not wishing to keep the salmon-fisher waiting.
He was surprised and not altogether pleased to find that his visitor was
none other than Saft Tammie, who at once opened fire on him:
'I maun gang awa' t' the post; but I thocht that I would waste an hour
on ye, and ca' roond just to see if ye waur still that fou wi' vanity as
on the nicht gane by. An I see that ye've no learned the lesson. Well!
the time is comin', sure eneucht! However I have all the time i' the
marnins to my ain sel', so I'll aye look roond jist till see how ye gang
yer ain gait to the quicksan', and then to the de'il! I'm aff till ma
wark the noo!' And he went straightway, leaving Mr. Markam considerably
vexed, for the maids within earshot were vainly trying to conceal their
giggles. He had fairly made up his mind to wear on that day ordinary
clothes, but the visit of Saft Tammie reversed his decision. He would
show them all that he was not a coward, and he would go on as he had
begun--come what might. When he came to breakfast in full martial
panoply the children, one and all, held down their heads and the backs
of their necks became very red indeed. As, however, none of them
laughed--except Titus, the youngest boy, who was seized with a fit of
hysterical choking and was promptly banished from the room--he could not
reprove them, but began to break his egg with a sternly determined air.
It was unfortunate that as his wife was handing him a cup of tea one of
the buttons of his sleeve caught in the lace of her morning wrapper,
with the result that the hot tea was spilt over his bare knees. Not
unnaturally, he made use of a swear word, whereupon his wife, somewhat
nettled, spoke out:
'Well, Arthur, if you will make such an idiot of yourself with that
ridiculous costume what else can you expect? You are not accustomed to
it--and you never will be!' In answer he began an indignant speech with:
'Madam!' but he got no further, for now that the subject was broached,
Mrs. Markam intended to have her say out. It was not a pleasant say,
and, truth to tell, it was not said in a pleasant manner. A wife's
manner seldom is pleasant when she undertakes to tell what she considers
'truths' to her husband. The result was that Arthur Fernlee Markam
undertook, then and there, that during his stay in Scotland he would
wear no other costume than the one she abused. Woman-like his wife had
the last word--given in this case with tears:
'Very well, Arthur! Of course you will do as you choose. Make me as
ridiculous as you can, and spoil the poor girls' chances in life. Young
men don't seem to care, as a general rule, for an idiot father-in-law!
But I must warn you that your vanity will some day get a rude shock--if
indeed you are not before then in an asylum or dead!'
It was manifest after a few days that Mr. Markam would have to take the
major part of his outdoor exercise by himself. The girls now and again
took a walk with him, chiefly in the early morning or late at night, or
on a wet day when there would be no one about; they professed to be
willing to go out at all times, but somehow something always seemed to
occur to prevent it. The boys could never be found at all on such
occasions, and as to Mrs. Markam she sternly refused to go out with him
on any consideration so long as he should continue to make a fool of
himself. On the Sunday he dressed himself in his habitual broadcloth,
for he rightly felt that church was not a place for angry feelings; but
on Monday morning he resumed his Highland garb. By this time he would
have given a good deal if he had never thought of the dress, but his
British obstinacy was strong, and he would not give in. Saft Tammie
called at his house every morning, and, not being able to see him nor to
have any message taken to him, used to call back in the afternoon when
the letter-bag had been delivered and watched for his going out. On such
occasions he never failed to warn him against his vanity in the same
words which he had used at the first. Before many days were over Mr.
Markam had come to look upon him as little short of a scourge.
By the time the week was out the enforced partial solitude, the constant
chagrin, and the never-ending brooding which was thus engendered, began
to make Mr. Markam quite ill. He was too proud to take any of his family
into his confidence since they had in his view treated him very badly.
Then he did not sleep well at night, and when he did sleep he had
constantly bad dreams. Merely to assure himself that his pluck was not
failing him he made it a practice to visit the quicksand at least once
every day, he hardly ever failed to go there the last thing at night. It
was perhaps this habit that wrought the quicksand with its terrible
experience so perpetually into his dreams. More and more vivid these
became, till on waking at times he could hardly realise that he had not
been actually in the flesh to visit the fatal spot. He sometimes thought
that he might have been walking in his sleep.
One night his dream was so vivid that when he awoke he could not believe
that it had only been a dream. He shut his eyes again and again, but
each time the vision, if it was a vision, or the reality, if it was a
reality, would rise before him. The moon was shining full and yellow
over the quicksand as he approached it; he could see the expanse of
light shaken and disturbed and full of black shadows as the liquid sand
quivered and trembled and wrinkled and eddied as was its wont between
its pauses of marble calm. As he drew close to it another figure came
towards it from the opposite side with equal footsteps. He saw that it
was his own figure, his very self, and in silent terror, compelled by
what force he knew not, he advanced--charmed as the bird is by the
snake, mesmerised or hypnotised--to meet this other self. As he felt the
yielding sand closing over him he awoke in the agony of death, trembling
with fear, and, strange to say, with the silly man's prophecy seeming to
sound in his ears: '"Vanity of vanities! All is vanity!" See thyself and
repent ere the quicksand swallow thee!'
So convinced was he that this was no dream that he arose, early as it
was, and dressing himself without disturbing his wife took his way to
the shore. His heart fell when he came across a series of footsteps on
the sands, which he at once recognised as his own. There was the same
wide heel, the same square toe; he had no doubt now that he had actually
been there, and half horrified, and half in a state of dreamy stupor, he
followed the footsteps, and found them lost in the edge of the yielding
quicksand. This gave him a terrible shock, for there were no return
steps marked on the sand, and he felt that there was some dread mystery
which he could not penetrate, and the penetration of which would, he
feared, undo him.
In this state of affairs he took two wrong courses. Firstly he kept his
trouble to himself, and, as none of his family had any clue to it, every
innocent word or expression which they used supplied fuel to the
consuming fire of his imagination. Secondly he began to read books
professing to bear upon the mysteries of dreaming and of mental
phenomena generally, with the result that every wild imagination of
every crank or half-crazy philosopher became a living germ of unrest in
the fertilising soil of his disordered brain. Thus negatively and
positively all things began to work to a common end. Not the least of
his disturbing causes was Saft Tammie, who had now become at certain
times of the day a fixture at his gate. After a while, being interested
in the previous state of this individual, he made inquiries regarding
his past with the following result.
Saft Tammie was popularly believed to be the son of a laird in one of
the counties round the Firth of Forth. He had been partially educated
for the ministry, but for some cause which no one ever knew threw up his
prospects suddenly, and, going to Peterhead in its days of whaling
prosperity, had there taken service on a whaler. Here off and on he had
remained for some years, getting gradually more and more silent in his
habits, till finally his shipmates protested against so taciturn a mate,
and he had found service amongst the fishing smacks of the northern
fleet. He had worked for many years at the fishing with always the
reputation of being 'a wee bit daft,' till at length he had gradually
settled down at Crooken, where the laird, doubtless knowing something of
his family history, had given him a job which practically made him a
pensioner. The minister who gave the information finished thus:--
'It is a very strange thing, but the man seems to have some odd kind of
gift. Whether it be that "second sight" which we Scotch people are so
prone to believe in, or some other occult form of knowledge, I know not,
but nothing of a disastrous tendency ever occurs in this place but the
men with whom he lives are able to quote after the event some saying of
his which certainly appears to have foretold it. He gets uneasy or
excited--wakes up, in fact--when death is in the air!'
This did not in any way tend to lessen Mr. Markam's concern, but on the
contrary seemed to impress the prophecy more deeply on his mind. Of all
the books which he had read on his new subject of study none interested
him so much as a German one _Die Döppleganger_, by Dr. Heinrich von
Aschenberg, formerly of Bonn. Here he learned for the first time of
cases where men had led a double existence--each nature being quite
apart from the other--the body being always a reality with one spirit,
and a simulacrum with the other. Needless to say that Mr. Markam
realised this theory as exactly suiting his own case. The glimpse which
he had of his own back the night of his escape from the quicksand--his
own footmarks disappearing into the quicksand with no return steps
visible--the prophecy of Saft Tammie about his meeting himself and
perishing in the quicksand--all lent aid to the conviction that he was
in his own person an instance of the döppleganger. Being then conscious
of a double life he took steps to prove its existence to his own
satisfaction. To this end on one night before going to bed he wrote his
name in chalk on the soles of his shoes. That night he dreamed of the
quicksand, and of his visiting it--dreamed so vividly that on walking in
the grey of the dawn he could not believe that he had not been there.
Arising, without disturbing his wife, he sought his shoes.
The chalk signatures were undisturbed! He dressed himself and stole out
softly. This time the tide was in, so he crossed the dunes and struck
the shore on the further side of the quicksand. There, oh, horror of
horrors! he saw his own footprints dying into the abyss!
He went home a desperately sad man. It seemed incredible that he, an
elderly commercial man, who had passed a long and uneventful life in the
pursuit of business in the midst of roaring, practical London, should
thus find himself enmeshed in mystery and horror, and that he should
discover that he had two existences. He could not speak of his trouble
even to his own wife, for well he knew that she would at once require
the fullest particulars of that other life--the one which she did not
know; and that she would at the start not only imagine but charge him
with all manner of infidelities on the head of it. And so his brooding
grew deeper and deeper still. One evening--the tide then going out and
the moon being at the full--he was sitting waiting for dinner when the
maid announced that Saft Tammie was making a disturbance outside because
he would not be let in to see him. He was very indignant, but did not
like the maid to think that he had any fear on the subject, and so told
her to bring him in. Tammie entered, walking more briskly than ever with
his head up and a look of vigorous decision in the eyes that were so
generally cast down. As soon as he entered he said:
'I have come to see ye once again--once again; and there ye sit, still
just like a cockatoo on a pairch. Weel, mon, I forgie ye! Mind ye that,
I forgie ye!' And without a word more he turned and walked out of the
house, leaving the master in speechless indignation.
After dinner he determined to pay another visit to the quicksand--he
would not allow even to himself that he was afraid to go. And so, about
nine o'clock, in full array, he marched to the beach, and passing over
the sands sat on the skirt of the nearer rock. The full moon was behind
him and its light lit up the bay so that its fringe of foam, the dark
outline of the headland, and the stakes of the salmon-nets were all
emphasised. In the brilliant yellow glow the lights in the windows of
Port Crooken and in those of the distant castle of the laird trembled
like stars through the sky. For a long time he sat and drank in the
beauty of the scene, and his soul seemed to feel a peace that it had not
known for many days. All the pettiness and annoyance and silly fears of
the past weeks seemed blotted out, and a new holy calm took the vacant
place. In this sweet and solemn mood he reviewed his late action calmly,
and felt ashamed of himself for his vanity and for the obstinacy which
had followed it. And then and there he made up his mind that the present
would be the last time he would wear the costume which had estranged him
from those whom he loved, and which had caused him so many hours and
days of chagrin, vexation, and pain.
But almost as soon as he arrived at this conclusion another voice seemed
to speak within him and mockingly to ask him if he should ever get the
chance to wear the suit again--that it was too late--he had chosen his
course and must now abide the issue.
'It is not too late,' came the quick answer of his better self; and full
of the thought, he rose up to go home and divest himself of the now
hateful costume right away. He paused for one look at the beautiful
scene. The light lay pale and mellow, softening every outline of rock
and tree and house-top, and deepening the shadows into velvety-black,
and lighting, as with a pale flame, the incoming tide, that now crept
fringe-like across the flat waste of sand. Then he left the rock and
stepped out for the shore.
But as he did so a frightful spasm of horror shook him, and for an
instant the blood rushing to his head shut out all the light of the full
moon. Once more he saw that fatal image of himself moving beyond the
quicksand from the opposite rock to the shore. The shock was all the
greater for the contrast with the spell of peace which he had just
enjoyed; and, almost paralysed in every sense, he stood and watched the
fatal vision and the wrinkly, crawling quicksand that seemed to writhe
and yearn for something that lay between. There could be no mistake this
time, for though the moon behind threw the face into shadow he could see
there the same shaven cheeks as his own, and the small stubby moustache
of a few weeks' growth. The light shone on the brilliant tartan, and on
the eagle's plume. Even the bald space at one side of the Glengarry cap
glistened, as did the cairngorm brooch on the shoulder and the tops of
the silver buttons. As he looked he felt his feet slightly sinking, for
he was still near the edge of the belt of quicksand, and he stepped
back. As he did so the other figure stepped forward, so that the space
between them was preserved.
So the two stood facing each other, as though in some weird fascination;
and in the rushing of the blood through his brain Markam seemed to hear
the words of the prophecy: 'See thyself face to face, and repent ere the
quicksand swallow thee.' He did stand face to face with himself, he had
repented--and now he was sinking in the quicksand! The warning and
prophecy were coming true.
Above him the seagulls screamed, circling round the fringe of the
incoming tide, and the sound being entirely mortal recalled him to
himself. On the instant he stepped back a few quick steps, for as yet
only his feet were merged in the soft sand. As he did so the other
figure stepped forward, and coming within the deadly grip of the
quicksand began to sink. It seemed to Markam that he was looking at
himself going down to his doom, and on the instant the anguish of his
soul found vent in a terrible cry. There was at the same instant a
terrible cry from the other figure, and as Markam threw up his hands the
figure did the same. With horror-struck eyes he saw him sink deeper into
the quicksand; and then, impelled by what power he knew not, he advanced
again towards the sand to meet his fate. But as his more forward foot
began to sink he heard again the cries of the seagulls which seemed to
restore his benumbed faculties. With a mighty effort he drew his foot
out of the sand which seemed to clutch it, leaving his shoe behind, and
then in sheer terror he turned and ran from the place, never stopping
till his breath and strength failed him, and he sank half swooning on
the grassy path through the sandhills.
* * * * *
Arthur Markam made up his mind not to tell his family of his terrible
adventure--until at least such time as he should be complete master of
himself. Now that the fatal double--his other self--had been engulfed in
the quicksand he felt something like his old peace of mind.
That night he slept soundly and did not dream at all; and in the morning
was quite his old self. It really seemed as though his newer and worser
self had disappeared for ever; and strangely enough Saft Tammie was
absent from his post that morning and never appeared there again, but
sat in his old place watching nothing, as of old, with lack-lustre eye.
In accordance with his resolution he did not wear his Highland suit
again, but one evening tied it up in a bundle, claymore, dirk and
philibeg and all, and bringing it secretly with him threw it into the
quicksand. With a feeling of intense pleasure he saw it sucked below the
sand, which closed above it into marble smoothness. Then he went home
and announced cheerily to his family assembled for evening prayers:
'Well! my dears, you will be glad to hear that I have abandoned my idea
of wearing the Highland dress. I see now what a vain old fool I was and
how ridiculous I made myself! You shall never see it again!'
'Where is it, father?' asked one of the girls, wishing to say something
so that such a self-sacrificing announcement as her father's should not
be passed in absolute silence. His answer was so sweetly given that the
girl rose from her seat and came and kissed him. It was:
'In the quicksand, my dear! and I hope that my worser self is buried
there along with it--for ever.'
* * * * *
The remainder of the summer was passed at Crooken with delight by all
the family, and on his return to town Mr. Markam had almost forgotten
the whole of the incident of the quicksand, and all touching on it, when
one day he got a letter from the MacCallum More which caused him much
thought, though he said nothing of it to his family, and left it, for
certain reasons, unanswered. It ran as follows:--
'The MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu.
'The Scotch All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart.
Copthall Court, E.C.,
30th September, 1892.
'Dear Sir,--I trust you will pardon the liberty which I take in writing
to you, but I am desirous of making an inquiry, and I am informed that
you have been sojourning during the summer in Aberdeenshire (Scotland,
N.B.). My partner, Mr. Roderick MacDhu--as he appears for business
reasons on our bill-heads and in our advertisements, his real name being
Emmanuel Moses Marks of London--went early last month to Scotland (N.B.)
for a tour, but as I have only once heard from him, shortly after his
departure, I am anxious lest any misfortune may have befallen him. As I
have been unable to obtain any news of him on making all inquiries in my
power, I venture to appeal to you. His letter was written in deep
dejection of spirit, and mentioned that he feared a judgment had come
upon him for wishing to appear as a Scotchman on Scottish soil, as he
had one moonlight night shortly after his arrival seen his 'wraith'. He
evidently alluded to the fact that before his departure he had procured
for himself a Highland costume similar to that which we had the honour
to supply to you, with which, as perhaps you will remember, he was much
struck. He may, however, never have worn it, as he was, to my own
knowledge, diffident about putting it on, and even went so far as to
tell me that he would at first only venture to wear it late at night or
very early in the morning, and then only in remote places, until such
time as he should get accustomed to it. Unfortunately he did not advise
me of his route so that I am in complete ignorance of his whereabouts;
and I venture to ask if you may have seen or heard of a Highland costume
similar to your own having been seen anywhere in the neighbourhood in
which I am told you have recently purchased the estate which you
temporarily occupied. I shall not expect an answer to this letter unless
you can give me some information regarding my friend and partner, so
pray do not trouble to reply unless there be cause. I am encouraged to
think that he may have been in your neighbourhood as, though his letter
is not dated, the envelope is marked with the postmark of "Yellon" which
I find is in Aberdeenshire, and not far from the Mains of Crooken.
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