In the brilliant yellow glow the lights in the windows of
Port Crooken and in those of the distant castle of the laird trembled
like stars through the sky. For a long time he sat and drank in the
beauty of the scene, and his soul seemed to feel a peace that it had
not known for many days. All the pettiness and annoyance and silly
fears of the past weeks seemed blotted out, and a new holy calm took
the vacant place. In this sweet and solemn mood he reviewed his late
action calmly, and felt ashamed of himself for his vanity and for the
obstinacy which had followed it. And then and there he made up his mind
that the present would be the last time he would wear the costume which
had estranged him from those whom he loved, and which had caused him so
many hours and days of chagrin, vexation, and pain. But almost as soon as he arrived at this conclusion another voice
seemed to speak within him and mockingly to ask him if he should ever
get the chance to wear the suit again—that it was too late—he had
chosen his course and must now abide the issue. “It is not too late,” came the quick answer of his better self; and
full of the thought, he rose up to go home and divest himself of the
now hateful costume right away. He paused for one look at the beautiful
scene. The light lay pale and mellow, softening every outline of rock
and tree and house-top, and deepening the shadows into velvety-black,
and lighting, as with a pale flame, the incoming tide, that now crept
fringe-like across the flat waste of sand. Then he left the rock and
stepped out for the shore. But as he did so a frightful spasm of horror shook him, and for an
instant the blood rushing to his head shut out all the light of the
full moon. Once more he saw that fatal image of himself moving beyond
the quicksand from the opposite rock to the shore. The shock was all
the greater for the contrast with the spell of peace which he had just
enjoyed; and, almost paralysed in every sense, he stood and watched the
fatal vision and the wrinkly, crawling quicksand that seemed to writhe
and yearn for something that lay between. There could be no mistake
this time, for though the moon behind threw the face into shadow he
could see there the same shaven cheeks as his own, and the small stubby
moustache of a few weeks’ growth. The light shone on the brilliant
tartan, and on the eagle’s plume. Even the bald space at one side of
the Glengarry cap glistened, as did the cairngorm brooch on the
shoulder and the tops of the silver buttons. As he looked he felt his
feet slightly sinking, for he was still near the edge of the belt of
quicksand, and he stepped back. As he did so the other figure stepped
forward, so that the space between them was preserved. So the two stood facing each other, as though in some weird
fascination; and in the rushing of the blood through his brain Markam
seemed to hear the words of the prophecy: “See thyself face to face,
and repent ere the quicksand swallow thee.” He did stand face to face
with himself, he had repented—and now he was sinking in the quicksand! The warning and prophecy were coming true. Above him the seagulls screamed, circling round the fringe of the
incoming tide, and the sound being entirely mortal recalled him to
himself. On the instant he stepped back a few quick steps, for as yet
only his feet were merged in the soft sand. As he did so the other
figure stepped forward, and coming within the deadly grip of the
quicksand began to sink. It seemed to Markam that he was looking at
himself going down to his doom, and on the instant the anguish of his
soul found vent in a terrible cry. There was at the same instant a
terrible cry from the other figure, and as Markam threw up his hands
the figure did the same. With horror-struck eyes he saw him sink deeper
into the quicksand; and then, impelled by what power he knew not, he
advanced again towards the sand to meet his fate. But as his more
forward foot began to sink he heard again the cries of the seagulls
which seemed to restore his benumbed faculties. With a mighty effort he
drew his foot out of the sand which seemed to clutch it, leaving his
shoe behind, and then in sheer terror he turned and ran from the place,
never stopping till his breath and strength failed him, and he sank
half swooning on the grassy path through the sandhills. Arthur Markam made up his mind not to tell his family of his terrible
adventure—until at least such time as he should be complete master of
himself. Now that the fatal double—his other self—had been engulfed in
the quicksand he felt something like his old peace of mind. That night he slept soundly and did not dream at all; and in the
morning was quite his old self. It really seemed as though his newer
and worser self had disappeared for ever; and strangely enough Saft
Tammie was absent from his post that morning and never appeared there
again, but sat in his old place watching nothing, as of old, with
lack-lustre eye. In accordance with his resolution he did not wear his
Highland suit again, but one evening tied it up in a bundle, claymore,
dirk and philibeg and all, and bringing it secretly with him threw it
into the quicksand. With a feeling of intense pleasure he saw it sucked
below the sand, which closed above it into marble smoothness. Then he
went home and announced cheerily to his family assembled for evening
prayers:

“Well! my dears, you will be glad to hear that I have abandoned my idea
of wearing the Highland dress. I see now what a vain old fool I was and
how ridiculous I made myself! You shall never see it again!”

“Where is it, father?” asked one of the girls, wishing to say something
so that such a self-sacrificing announcement as her father’s should not
be passed in absolute silence. His answer was so sweetly given that the
girl rose from her seat and came and kissed him. It was:

“In the quicksand, my dear! and I hope that my worser self is buried
there along with it—for ever.”


The remainder of the summer was passed at Crooken with delight by all
the family, and on his return to town Mr. Markam had almost forgotten
the whole of the incident of the quicksand, and all touching on it,
when one day he got a letter from the MacCallum More which caused him
much thought, though he said nothing of it to his family, and left it,
for certain reasons, unanswered. It ran as follows:—

“The MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu. “The Scotch All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart. Copthall Court, E.C.,
30th September, 1892. “Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon the liberty which I take in writing
to you, but I am desirous of making an inquiry, and I am informed that
you have been sojourning during the summer in Aberdeenshire (Scotland,
N.B.). My partner, Mr. Roderick MacDhu—as he appears for business
reasons on our bill-heads and in our advertisements, his real name
being Emmanuel Moses Marks of London—went early last month to Scotland
(N.B.)