The funeral of the poor sea captain today
was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard.
Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats
went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and
saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our
seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything.
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.
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.