Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless
and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that
her dreaming at night is telling on her. She
is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit
to me that there is any cause for restlessness, or
if there be, she does not understand it herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales
was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck
being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor
said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright,
for there was a look of fear and horror on his face
that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear
old man!
Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences
more acutely than other people do. Just now
she was quite upset by a little thing which I did
not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for
the boats was followed by his dog. The dog is
always with him. They are both quiet persons,
and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark.
During the service the dog would not come to its
master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few
yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke
to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily.
But it would neither come nor cease to make a noise.
It was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its
hair bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss
is on the war path.
Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and
kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of
the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the
tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment
it touched the stone the poor thing began to tremble.
It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering
and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of
terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort
it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt
to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised
sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too
super sensitive a nature to go through the world without
trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight,
I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things,
the ship steered into port by a dead man, his attitude,
tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching
funeral, the dog, now furious and now in terror, will
all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired
out physically, so I shall take her for a long walk
by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and back.
She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking
then.
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
