MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not
sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed
to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but
she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I
awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and
got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this
sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical
way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields
herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour
to see if anything had happened in the night. There were very few
people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and
fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves
because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves
in through the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going
through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the
sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where
is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only
knew what to do, and could do anything!
10 August.—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.
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 meon 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 aThe 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.Same day, 11 o'clock p. m..—Oh, but I am tired! If it were not
that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it tonight. We
had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing,
I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field
close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I
believe we forgot everything, except of course, personal fear, and
it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had
a capital `severe tea' at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little
oldfashioned inn, with a bow window right over the seaweedcovered
rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the `New
Woman' with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then
we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and
with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls.
Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as
soon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs.
Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight
for it with the dusty miller. I know it was a hard fight on my
part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must
get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who
don't take supper, no matter how hard they may be pressed to, and
who will know when girls are tired.
Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more color in her
cheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in
love with her seeing her only in the drawing room, I wonder what he
would say if he saw her now. Some of the `New Women' writers will
some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see
each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the
`New Woman' won't condescend in future to accept. She will do the
proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too! There's
some consolation in that. I am so happy tonight, because dear Lucy
seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that