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.

CHAPTER 8

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL