Crooken Sands by Bram Stoker | Full Audiobook

Gates of Imagination Presents Crooken Sands by Bram Stoker, read by Arthur Lane Mr. Arthur Fernley Markham, 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 McSlogan of that ilk, and singing the celebrated Scotch Song. There's nathing like haggis to Macamond 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. Markham'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 McSlogan 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 cyanite, 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 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 good winds, 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 away to the shore, winding amongst the sand-hills. When the Markham family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer, Ban Rye from Blackwall, with the subsequent train to Yellen 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 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 Markham girls' new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom-friends and of joy to themselves. Arthur Fernley Markham 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 ensure 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 Moore and Roderick MacDew. 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 fillibeg, dirk and sporran, that he was fully and absolutely satisfied with his choice. At first he had thought of the Royal Stuart-dressed 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. Markham 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 Markham'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 MacAllister and Ogilvy clans, and as to neutrality of colour from the clans of Buchanan, Macbeth, Chief of Mackintosh, and MacLeod. When the specimen had been shown to Markham he had feared somewhat lest it should strike the eye of his domestic circle as gaudy. But as Roderick MacDew 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 MacDew 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. Markham 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. Markham 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 Markham 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 Rai was hanging off the girdle-nest 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. Markham 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 sign-assure 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 boldly. He was not outwardly upset even when some of the comments reached his ears. "'He's off his blooming 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. Markham 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. Markham 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 Rai 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 Markham 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 gangplank, followed in wandering 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 fisherfolk 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. Markham 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 Markham, 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. Markham 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 Tammy 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 quick sand which swallows up all which comes within its spell. Beware vanity, beware the quick sand 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 quick sand swallow thee." Then without another word he went back to his seat and sat there immovable and expressionless as before. Markham 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 sea-shore walk. 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. Markham 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 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 realized 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 thank it I'm nay too late, and a fisherman with great thigh boots came hurriedly climbing over the rock. In an instant he recognized the gravity of the danger, and with a cheering, HOD 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 Markham's wrist, called out to him, HOD TO ME MON, HOD TO ME WE ITHER HUND. 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 locked at yon foolish lads and begun to rin at the first, you'd a been sinkin' dune to the bowels of the earth, be the new. Woolly Beagrey thought you was a gayest, and Tom Macphail swore you was only like a goblin on a puddick's steel. Nah, said I, yon's but the daft Englishman, the loony that had escaped free the waxworks. I was thinkin' that bein' strange and silly, if not a whole made feel, you'd know Ken the ways of the quicksand. I shouted till warn ye, and then ran to drag ye aft if need be. But God be thank it, be ye fuel or only half daft were ye vanity, that I was no that late, and he reverently lifted his cap as he spoke. Mr. Markham 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. Nah, nah, ye owe that to God. But as for me, I'm only too glad to be the humble instrument of his mercy. But you will let me thank you, said Mr. Markham, 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 you will, if it'll do your poor heart good. And 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 Fernley Markham 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. Markham 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 sucker him. Na, na! came the answer. There is naysick another fuel in these parts, nor has there been since the time o' Jamie Fleeman, him that was fuel to the lair o' Woodenny, why, mon, sicker heathenish dress as ye have on, till ye has nay been seen in these parts within the memory o' mon. And I'm thinkin' that sicker dress never was for sittin' on the cold rock as ye done be on't, mon, but do ye no fear the rheumatism or the lumbergy wi' floppin' dune on to the cold stains wi' yer bare flesh. I was thinkin' that it was daft ye wore when I see ye the morn in Mr. Markham 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 Saf Tammy 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 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 Tammy, who at once opened fire on him. I mourned gang a way to the post, but I thought that I would waste an hour on you, and carooned just to see if you wore still that fur with vanity as on the nicked game by, and I see that you've now learned the lesson. Well, the time is coming, sure enough. However, I have all the time of the mornings to my aimsel, so I'll I look rune just till see how you gang your aim gate to the quicksand, and then to the dale. I'm aft till my walk the new. And he went straight way, leaving Mr. Markham 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 Tammy 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 marshal 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. Markham 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 Fernley Markham 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 girl's 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. Markham 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. Markham 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 Tammy 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. Markham 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. Markham 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 realize 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, mesmerized or hypnotized, 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 recognized 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 fertilizing 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 Safd Tami, 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. Safd Tami 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 Crookham, 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. Markham'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 1-D 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. Markham realized this theory as exactly suiting his own case. The glimpse which he had of his own backed the night of his escape from the quicksand, his own footmarks disappearing into the quicksand with no return steps visible, the prophecy of Saft Tammy 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 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 Saf Tammy 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. Tammy entered, walking more briskly than ever with his head up, and a look of vigorous decision in the eyes that was so generally cast down. As soon as he entered he said, I've come to see you once again, once again, and there ye sit, still just like a cockatoo on a perch. Wilmon, 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 emphasized. 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 week 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 housetop, 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 paralyzed 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, Markham 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 seagull 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 Markham 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 Markham 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 sand hills. Arthur Markham 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 Tammy was absent from his post that morning and never appeared there again, but sat in his old place watching nothing, as of old, with lacklustre 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 filibeg 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, forever. The remainder of the summer was passed at Crooken with delight by all the family, and on his return to town Mr. Markham 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 Moor, 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 Moor and Roderick MacDew. The Scotch All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart. Coptall Court, E.C., the 30th of 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 MacDew, 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 Crookhan. I have the honour to be, dear sir, yours very respectfully, Joshua Sheeney-Cohen Benjamin, The McCallum Moor. Thank you for listening. If you like our recordings, consider liking this video and subscribing to our channel, so you don't miss any more audiobooks.