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
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.