Dracula's Guest
belted round the extensive paunch and protruding from the stocking on
the sturdy calf, fulfilled their existence as symbols of martial and
terrifying import! When the party arrived at the gate of the Red House
there awaited them a crowd of Crooken inhabitants, hatless and
respectfully silent; the remainder of the population was painfully
toiling up the hill. The silence was broken by only one sound, that of
a man with a deep voice.
“Man! but he’s forgotten the pipes!”
The servants had arrived some days before, and all things were in
readiness. In the glow consequent on a good lunch after a hard journey
all the disagreeables of travel and all the chagrin consequent on the
adoption of the obnoxious costume were forgotten.
That afternoon Markam, still clad in full array, walked through the
Mains of Crooken. He was all alone, for, strange to say, his wife and
both daughters had sick headaches, and were, as he was told, lying down
to rest after the fatigue of the journey. His eldest son, who claimed
to be a young man, had gone out by himself to explore the surroundings
of the place, and one of the boys could not be found. The other boy, on
being told that his father had sent for him to come for a walk, had
managed—by accident, of course—to fall into the water butt, and had to
be dried and rigged out afresh. His clothes not having been as yet
unpacked this was of course impossible without delay.
Mr. Markam was not quite satisfied with his walk. He could not meet any
of his neighbours. It was not that there were not enough people about,
for every house and cottage seemed to be full; but the people when in
the open were either in their doorways some distance behind him, or on
the roadway a long distance in front. As he passed he could see the
tops of heads and the whites of eyes in the windows or round the
corners of doors. The only interview which he had was anything but a
pleasant one. This was with an odd sort of old man who was hardly ever
heard to speak except to join in the “Amens” in the meeting-house. His
sole occupation seemed to be to wait at the window of the post-office
from eight o’clock in the morning till the arrival of the mail at one,
when he carried the letter-bag to a neighbouring baronial castle. The
remainder of his day was spent on a seat in a draughty part of the
port, where the offal of the fish, the refuse of the bait, and the
house rubbish was thrown, and where the ducks were accustomed to hold
high revel.
When Saft Tammie beheld him coming he raised his eyes, which were
generally fixed on the nothing which lay on the roadway opposite his
seat, and, seeming dazzled as if by a burst of sunshine, rubbed them
and shaded them with his hand. Then he started up and raised his hand
aloft in a denunciatory manner as he spoke:—
“‘Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. All is vanity.’ Mon, be
warned in time! ‘Behold the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither
do they spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these.’ Mon! Mon! Thy vanity is as the quicksand which swallows up all
which comes within its spell. Beware vanity! Beware the quicksand,
which yawneth for thee, and which will swallow thee up! See thyself!
Learn thine own vanity! Meet thyself face to face, and then in that
moment thou shalt learn the fatal force of thy vanity. Learn it, know
it, and repent ere the quicksand swallow thee!” Then without another
word he went back to his seat and sat there immovable and
expressionless as before.
Markam could not but feel a little upset by this tirade. Only that it
was spoken by a seeming madman, he would have put it down to some
eccentric exhibition of Scottish humour or impudence; but the gravity
of the message—for it seemed nothing else—made such a reading
impossible. He was, however, determined not to give in to ridicule, and
although he had not yet seen anything in Scotland to remind him even of
a kilt, he determined to wear his Highland dress. When he returned
home, in less than half-an-hour, he found that every member of the
family was, despite the headaches, out taking a walk. He took the
opportunity afforded by their absence of locking himself in his
dressing-room, took off the Highland dress, and, putting on a suit of
flannels, lit a cigar and had a snooze. He was awakened by the noise of
the family coming in, and at once donning his dress made his appearance
in the drawing-room for tea.
He did not go out again that afternoon; but after dinner he put on his
dress again—he had, of course dressed for dinner as usual—and went by
himself for a walk on the sea-shore. He had by this time come to the
conclusion that he would get by degrees accustomed to the Highland
dress before making it his ordinary wear. The moon was up and he easily
followed the path through the sand-hills, and shortly struck the shore.
The tide was out and the beach firm as a rock, so he strolled
southwards to nearly the end of the bay. Here he was attracted by two
isolated rocks some little way out from the edge of the dunes, so he
strolled towards them. When he reached the nearest one he climbed it,
and, sitting there elevated some fifteen or twenty feet over the waste
of sand, enjoyed the lovely, peaceful prospect. The moon was rising
behind the headland of Pennyfold, and its light was just touching the
top of the furthermost rock of the Spurs some three-quarters of a mile
out; the rest of the rocks were in dark shadow. As the moon rose over
the headland, the rocks of the Spurs and then the beach by degrees
became flooded with light.
For a good while Mr. Markam sat and looked at the rising moon and the
growing area of light which followed its rise. Then he turned and faced
eastwards and sat with his chin in his hand looking seawards, and
revelling in the peace and beauty and freedom of the scene. The roar of
London—the darkness and the strife and weariness of London life—seemed
to have passed quite away, and he lived at the moment a freer and
higher life. He looked at the glistening water as it stole its way over
the flat waste of sand, coming closer and closer insensibly—the tide
had turned. Presently he heard a distant shouting along the beach very
far off.
“The fishermen calling to each other,” he said to himself and looked
around. As he did so he got a horrible shock, for though just then a
cloud sailed across the moon he saw, in spite of the sudden darkness
around him, his own image. For an instant, on the top of the opposite
rock he could see the bald back of the head and the Glengarry cap with
the immense eagle’s feather. As he staggered back his foot slipped, and
he began to slide down towards the sand between the two rocks. He took
no concern as to 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’ ither hond!”
Then he lent his great strength, and with a steady, sturdy pull,
dragged him out of the hungry quicksand and placed him safe upon the
rock. Hardly giving him time to draw breath, he pulled and pushed
him—never letting him go for an instant—over the rock into the firm
sand beyond it, and finally deposited him, still shaking from the
magnitude of his danger, high upon the beach. Then he began to speak:
“Mon! but I was just in time. If I had no laucht at yon foolish lads
and begun to rin at the first you’d a bin sinkin’ doon to the bowels o’
the airth be the noo! Wully Beagrie thocht you was a ghaist, and Tom
MacPhail swore ye was only like a goblin on a puddick-steel! ‘Na!’ said
I. ‘Yon’s but the daft Englishman—the loony that had escapit frae the
waxwarks.’ I was thinkin’ that bein’ strange and silly—if not a
whole-made feel—ye’d no ken the ways o’ the quicksan’! I shouted till
warn ye, and then ran to drag ye aff, if need be. But God be thankit,
be ye fule or only half-daft wi’ yer vanity, that I was no that late!”
and he reverently lifted his cap as he spoke.
Mr. Markam was deeply touched and thankful for his escape from a
horrible death; but the sting of the charge of vanity thus made once
more against him came through his humility. He was about to reply
angrily, when suddenly a great awe fell upon him as he remembered the
warning words of the half-crazy letter-carrier: “Meet thyself face to
face, and repent ere the quicksand shall swallow thee!”
Here, too, he remembered the image of himself that he had seen and the
sudden danger from the deadly quicksand that had followed. He was
silent a full minute, and then said:
“My good fellow, I owe you my life!”
The answer came with reverence from the hardy fisherman, “Na! Na! Ye
owe that to God; but, as for me, I’m only too glad till be the humble
instrument o’ His mercy.”
“But you will let me thank you,” said Mr. Markam, taking both the great
hands of his deliverer in his and holding them tight. “My heart is too
full as yet, and my nerves are too much shaken to let me say much; but,
believe me, I am very, very grateful!” It was quite evident that the
poor old fellow was deeply touched, for the tears were running down his
cheeks.
The fisherman said, with a rough but true courtesy:
“Ay, sir! thank me and ye will—if it’ll do yer poor heart good. An’ I’m
thinking that if it were me I’d be thankful too. But, sir, as for me I
need no thanks. I am glad, so I am!”
That Arthur Fernlee Markam was really thankful and grateful was shown
practically later on. Within a week’s time there sailed into Port
Crooken the finest fishing smack that had ever been seen in the harbour
of Peterhead. She was fully found with sails and gear of all kinds, and
with nets of the best. Her master and men went away by the coach, after
having left with the salmon-fisher’s wife the papers which made her
over to him.
As Mr. Markam and the salmon-fisher walked together along the shore the
former asked his companion not to mention the fact that he had been in
such imminent danger, for that it would only distress his dear wife and
children. He said that he would warn them all of the quicksand, and for
that purpose he, then and there, asked questions about it till he felt