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 an 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.
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 on 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-MacCullum 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 MacCullum, 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 MacCullum 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 their 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
seasickness, 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 rising 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 a 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 as 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 fisherman 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
falling, 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' your 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 up on 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 has
escapit frae the wax-warks.' 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 like to 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 gray 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 for 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 realize 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 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 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 "Der Doppelganger" 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
doppelganger. 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 waking in the gray 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 and 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 yourself 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.
I have the honour to be, dear sir,
Yours very respectfully,
JOSHUA SHEENY COHEN BENJAMIN
(The MacCallum More.)
No comments:
Post a Comment