Dracula's Guest
Crooken Sands
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.
When the Markam family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six
hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer _Ban Righ_ from Blackwall,
with the subsequent train to Yellon and drive of a dozen miles, they
all agreed that they had never seen a more delightful spot. The general
satisfaction was more marked as at that very time none of the family
were, for several reasons, inclined to find favourable anything or any
place over the Scottish border. Though the family was a large one, the
prosperity of the business allowed them all sorts of personal luxuries,
amongst which was a wide latitude in the way of dress. The frequency of
the Markam girls’ new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom
friends and of joy to themselves.
Arthur Fernlee Markam had not taken his family into his confidence
regarding his new costume. He was not quite certain that he should be
free from ridicule, or at least from sarcasm, and as he was sensitive
on the subject, he thought it better to be actually in the suitable
environment before he allowed the full splendour to burst upon them. He
had taken some pains, to insure the completeness of the Highland
costume. For the purpose he had paid many visits to “The Scotch
All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart” which had been lately established in
Copthall-court by the Messrs. MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu. He
had anxious consultations with the head of the firm—MacCallum as he
called himself, resenting any such additions as “Mr.” or “Esquire.” The
known stock of buckles, buttons, straps, brooches and ornaments of all
kinds were examined in critical detail; and at last an eagle’s feather
of sufficiently magnificent proportions was discovered, and the
equipment was complete. It was only when he saw the finished costume,
with the vivid hues of the tartan seemingly modified into comparative
sobriety by the multitude of silver fittings, the cairngorm brooches,
the philibeg, dirk and sporran that he was fully and absolutely
satisfied with his choice. At first he had thought of the Royal Stuart
dress tartan, but abandoned it on the MacCallum pointing out that if he
should happen to be in the neighbourhood of Balmoral it might lead to
complications. The MacCallum, who, by the way, spoke with a remarkable
cockney accent, suggested other plaids in turn; but now that the other
question of accuracy had been raised, Mr. Markam foresaw difficulties
if he should by chance find himself in the locality of the clan whose
colours he had usurped. The MacCallum at last undertook to have, at
Markam’s expense, a special pattern woven which would not be exactly
the same as any existing tartan, though partaking of the
characteristics of many. It was based on the Royal Stuart, but
contained suggestions as to simplicity of pattern from the Macalister
and Ogilvie clans, and as to neutrality of colour from the clans of
Buchanan, Macbeth, Chief of Macintosh and Macleod. When the specimen
had been shown to Markam he had feared somewhat lest it should strike
the eye of his domestic circle as gaudy; but as Roderick MacDhu fell
into perfect ecstasies over its beauty he did not make any objection to
the completion of the piece. He thought, and wisely, that if a genuine
Scotchman like MacDhu liked it, it must be right—especially as the
junior partner was a man very much of his own build and appearance.
When the MacCallum was receiving his cheque—which, by the way, was a
pretty stiff one—he remarked:
“I’ve taken the liberty of having some more of the stuff woven in case
you or any of your friends should want it.” Markam was gratified, and
told him that he should be only too happy if the beautiful stuff which
they had originated between them should become a favourite, as he had
no doubt it would in time. He might make and sell as much as he would.
Markam tried the dress on in his office one evening after the clerks
had all gone home. He was pleased, though a little frightened, at the
result. The MacCallum had done his work thoroughly, and there was
nothing omitted that could add to the martial dignity of the wearer.
“I shall not, of course, take the claymore and the pistols with me on
ordinary occasions,” said Markam to himself as he began to undress. He
determined that he would wear the dress for the first time on landing
in Scotland, and accordingly on the morning when the _Ban Righ_ was
hanging off the Girdle Ness lighthouse, waiting for the tide to enter
the port of Aberdeen, he emerged from his cabin in all the gaudy
splendour of his new costume. The first comment he heard was from one
of his own sons, who did not recognise him at first.
“Here’s a guy! Great Scott! It’s the governor!” And the boy fled
forthwith and tried to bury his laughter under a cushion in the saloon.
Markam was a good sailor and had not suffered from the pitching of the
boat, so that his naturally rubicund face was even more rosy by the
conscious blush which suffused his cheeks when he had found himself at
once the cynosure of all eyes. He could have wished that he had not
been so bold for he knew from the cold that there was a big bare spot
under one side of his jauntily worn Glengarry cap. However, he faced
the group of strangers boldly. He was not, outwardly, upset even when
some of the comments reached his ears.
“He’s off his bloomin’ chump,” said a cockney in a suit of exaggerated
plaid.
“There’s flies on him,” said a tall thin Yankee, pale with
sea-sickness, who was on his way to take up his residence for a time as
close as he could get to the gates of Balmoral.
“Happy thought! Let us fill our mulls; now’s the chance!” said a young
Oxford man on his way home to Inverness. But presently Mr. Markam heard
the voice of his eldest daughter.
“Where is he? Where is he?” and she came tearing along the deck with
her hat blowing behind her. Her face showed signs of agitation, for her
mother had just been telling her of her father’s condition; but when
she saw him she instantly burst into laughter so violent that it ended
in a fit of hysterics. Something of the same kind happened to each of
the other children. When they had all had their turn Mr. Markam went to
his cabin and sent his wife’s maid to tell each member of the family
that he wanted to see them at once. They all made their appearance,
suppressing their feelings as well as they could. He said to them very
quietly:
“My dears, don’t I provide you all with ample allowances?”
“Yes, father!” they all answered gravely, “no one could be more
generous!”
“Don’t I let you dress as you please?”
“Yes, father!”—this a little sheepishly.
“Then, my dears, don’t you think it would be nicer and kinder of you
not to try and make me feel uncomfortable, even if I do assume a dress
which is ridiculous in your eyes, though quite common enough in the
country where we are about to sojourn?” There was no answer except that
which appeared in their hanging heads. He was a good father and they
all knew it. He was quite satisfied and went on:
“There, now, run away and enjoy yourselves! We shan’t have another word
about it.” Then he went on deck again and stood bravely the fire of
ridicule which he recognised around him, though nothing more was said
within his hearing.
The astonishment and the amusement which his get-up occasioned on the
_Ban Righ_ was, however, nothing to that which it created in Aberdeen.
The boys and loafers, and women with babies, who waited at the landing
shed, followed _en masse_ as the Markam party took their way to the
railway station; even the porters with their old-fashioned knots and
their new-fashioned barrows, who await the traveller at the foot of the
gang-plank, followed in wondering delight. Fortunately the Peterhead
train was just about to start, so that the martyrdom was not
unnecessarily prolonged. In the carriage the glorious Highland costume
was unseen, and as there were but few persons at the station at Yellon,
all went well there. When, however, the carriage drew near the Mains of
Crooken and the fisher folk had run to their doors to see who it was
that was passing, the excitement exceeded all bounds. The children with
one impulse waved their bonnets and ran shouting behind the carriage;
the men forsook their nets and their baiting and followed; the women
clutched their babies, and followed also. The horses were tired after
their long journey to Yellon and back, and the hill was steep, so that
there was ample time for the crowd to gather and even to pass on ahead.
Mrs. Markam and the elder girls would have liked to make some protest
or to do something to relieve their feelings of chagrin at the ridicule
which they saw on all faces, but there was a look of fixed
determination on the face of the seeming Highlander which awed them a
little, and they were silent. It might have been that the eagle’s
feather, even when arising above the bald head, the cairngorm brooch
even on the fat shoulder, and the claymore, dirk and pistols, even when