CUTTING FROM "THE DAILYGRAPH," 8
AUGUST
(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest
storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results
both strange and unique. The
weather had been somewhat sultry,
but not to any degree uncommon
in the month of August. Saturday
evening was as fine as was ever
known, and the great body of
holiday-makers laid out yesterday
for visits to Mulgrave Woods,
Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick,
Staithes, and the various trips
in the neighborhood of Whitby.
The steamers Emma and Scarborough
made trips up and down the coast,
and there was an unusual amount
of `tripping' both to and from
Whitby. The day was unusually
fine till the afternoon, when
some of the gossips who frequent
the East Cliff churchyard, and
from the commanding eminence
watch the wide sweep of sea visible
to the north and east, called
attention to a sudden show of
`mares tails' high in the sky
to the northwest. The wind was
then blowing from the southwest
in the mild degree which in barometrical
language is ranked `No. 2, light
breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once
made report, and one old fisherman,
who for more than half a century
has kept watch on weather signs
from the East Cliff, foretold
in an emphatic manner the coming
of a sudden storm. The approach
of sunset was so very beautiful,
so grand in its masses of splendidly
coloured clouds, that there was
quite an assemblage on the walk
along the cliff in the old churchyard
to enjoy the beauty. Before the
sun dipped below the black mass
of Kettleness, standing boldly
athwart the western sky, its
downward was was marked by myriad
clouds of every sunset colour,
flame, purple, pink, green, violet,
and all the tints of gold, with
here and there masses not large,
but of seemingly absolute blackness,
in all sorts of shapes, as well
outlined as colossal silhouettes.
The experience was not lost on
the painters, and doubtless some
of the sketches of the `Prelude
to the Great Storm' will grace
the R. A and R. I. walls in May
next.
More than one captain made
up his mind then and there that
his `cobble' or his `mule', as
they term the different classes
of boats, would remain in the
harbour till the storm had passed.
The wind fell away entirely during
the evening, and at midnight
there was a dead calm, a sultry
heat, and that prevailing intensity
which, on the approach of thunder,
affects persons of a sensitive
nature.
There were but few lights in
sight at sea, for even the coasting
steamers, which usually hug the
shore so closely, kept well to
seaward, and but few fishing
boats were in sight. The only
sail noticeable was a foreign
schooner with all sails set,
which was seemingly going westwards.
The foolhardiness or ignorance
of her officers was a prolific
theme for comment whilst she
remained in sight, and efforts
were made to signal her to reduce
sail in the face of her danger.
Before the night shut down she
was seen with sails idly flapping
as she gently rolled on the undulating
swell of the sea.
"As idle as
a painted ship upon a painted
ocean."
Shortly before ten o'clock
the stillness of the air grew
quite oppressive, and the silence
was so marked that the bleating
of a sheep inland or the barking
of a dog in the town was distinctly
heard, and the band on the pier,
with its lively French air, was
like a dischord in the great
harmony of nature's silence.
A little after midnight came
a strange sound from over the
sea, and high overhead the air
began to carry a strange, faint,
hollow booming.
Then without warning the tempest
broke. With a rapidity which,
at the time, seemed incredible,
and even afterwards is impossible
to realize, the whole aspect
of nature at once became convulsed.
The waves rose in growing fury,
each overtopping its fellow,
till in a very few minutes the
lately glassy sea was like a
roaring and devouring monster.
Whitecrested waves beat madly
on the level sands and rushed
up the shelving cliffs. Others
broke over the piers, and with
their spume swept the lanthorns
of the lighthouses which rise
from the end of either pier of
Whitby Harbour.
The wind roared like thunder,
and blew with such force that
it was with difficulty that even
strong men kept their feet, or
clung with grim clasp to the
iron stanchions. It was found
necessary to clear the entire
pier from the mass of onlookers,
or else the fatalities of the
night would have increased manifold.
To add to the difficulties and
dangers of the time, masses of
sea-fog came drifting inland.
White, wet clouds, which swept
by in ghostly fashion, so dank
and damp and cold that it needed
but little effort of imagination
to think that the spirits of
those lost at sea were touching
their living brethren with the
clammy hands of death, and many
a one shuddered at the wreaths
of sea-mist swept by.
At times the mist cleared,
and the sea for some distance
could be seen in the glare of
the lightning, which came thick
and fast, followed by such peals
of thunder that the whole sky
overhead seemed trembling under
the shock of the footsteps of
the storm.
Some of the scenes thus revealed
were of immeasurable grandeur
and of absorbing interest. The
sea, running mountains high,
threw skywards with each wave
mighty masses of white foam,
which the tempest seemed to snatch
at and whirl away into space.
Here and there a fishing boat,
with a rag of sail, running madly
for shelter before the blast,
now and again the white wings
of a storm-tossed seabird. On
the summit of the East Cliff
the new searchlight was ready
for experiment, but had not yet
been tried. The officers in charge
of it got it into working order,
and in the pauses of onrushing
mist swept with it the surface
of the sea. Once or twice its
service was most effective, as
when a fishing boat, with gunwale
under water, rushed into the
harbour, able, by the guidance
of the sheltering light, to avoid
the danger of dashing against
the piers. As each boat achieved
the safety of the port there
was a shout of joy from the mass
of people on the shore, a shout
which for a moment seemed to
cleave the gale and was then
swept away in its rush.
Before long the searchlight
discovered some distance away
a schooner with all sails set,
apparently the same vessel which
had been noticed earlier in the
evening. The wind had by this
time backed to the east, and
there was a shudder amongst the
watchers on the cliff as they
realized the terrible danger
in which she now was.
Between her and the port lay
the great flat reef on which
so many good ships have from
time to time suffered, and, with
the wind blowing from its present
quarter, it would be quite impossible
that she should fetch the entrance
of the harbour.
It was now
nearly the hour of high tide,
but the waves were
so great that in their troughs
the shallows of the shore were
almost visible, and the schooner,
with all sails set, was rushing
with such speed that, in the
words of one old salt, "she must
fetch up somewhere, if it was
only in hell". Then came another
rush of sea-fog, greater than
any hitherto, a mass of dank
mist, which seemed to close on
all things like a gray pall,
and left available to men only
the organ of hearing, for the
roar of the tempest, and the
crash of the thunder, and the
booming of the mighty billows
came through the damp oblivion
even louder than before. The
rays of the searchlight were
kept fixed on the harbour mouth
across the East Pier, where the
shock was expected, and men waited
breathless.
The wind suddenly shifted to
the northeast, and the remnant
of the sea fog melted in the
blast. And then, mirabile dictu,
between the piers, leaping from
wave to wave as it rushed at
headlong speed, swept the strange
schooner before the blast, with
all sail set, and gained the
safety of the harbour. The searchlight
followed her, and a shudder ran
through all who saw her, for
lashed to the helm was a corpse,
with drooping head, which swung
horribly to and fro at each motion
of the ship. No other form could
be seen on the deck at all.
A great awe came on all as
they realised that the ship,
as if by a miracle, had found
the harbour, unsteered save by
the hand of a dead man! However,
all took place more quickly than
it takes to write these words.
The schooner paused not, but
rushing across the harbour, pitched
herself on that accumulation
of sand and gravel washed by
many tides and many storms into
the southeast corner of the pier
jutting under the East Cliff,
known locally as Tate Hill Pier.
There was of course a considerable
concussion as the vessel drove
up on the sand heap. Every spar,
rope, and stay was strained,
and some of the `top-hammer'
came crashing down. But, strangest
of all, the very instant the
shore was touched, an immense
dog sprang up on deck from below,
as if shot up by the concussion,
and running forward, jumped from
the bow on the sand.
Making straight for the steep
cliff, where the churchyard hangs
over the laneway to the East
Pier so steeply that some of
the flat tombstones, thruffsteans
or through-stones, as they call
them in Whitby vernacular, actually
project over where the sustaining
cliff has fallen away, it disappeared
in the darkness, which seemed
intensified just beyond the focus
of the searchlight.
It so happened that there was
no one at the moment on Tate
Hill Pier, as all those whose
houses are in close proximity
were either in bed or were out
on the heights above. Thus the
coastguard on duty on the eastern
side of the harbour, who at once
ran down to the little pier,
was the first to climb aboard.
The men working the searchlight,
after scouring the entrance of
the harbour without seeing anything,
then turned the light on the
derelict and kept it there. The
coastguard ran aft, and when
he came beside the wheel, bent
over to examine it, and recoiled
at once as though under some
sudden emotion. This seemed to
pique general curiosity, and
quite a number of people began
to run.
It is a good way round from
the West Cliff by the Drawbridge
to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent
is a fairly good runner, and
came well ahead of the crowd.
When I arrived, however, I found
already assembled on the pier
a crowd, whom the coastguard
and police refused to allow to
come on board. By the courtesy
of the chief boatman, I was,
as your correspondent, permitted
to climb on deck, and was one
of a small group who saw the
dead seaman whilst actually lashed
to the wheel.
It was no wonder that the coastguard
was surprised, or even awed,
for not often can such a sight
have been seen. The man was simply
fastened by his hands, tied one
over the other, to a spoke of
the wheel. Between the inner
hand and the wood was a crucifix,
the set of beads on which it
was fastened being around both
wrists and wheel, and all kept
fast by the binding cords. The
poor fellow may have been seated
at one time, but the flapping
and buffeting of the sails had
worked through the rudder of
the wheel and had dragged him
to and fro, so that the cords
with which he was tied had cut
the flesh to the bone.
Accurate note was made of the
state of things, and a doctor,
Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33,
East Elliot Place, who came immediately
after me, declared, after making
examination, that the man must
have been dead for quite two
days.
In his pocket was a bottle,
carefully corked, empty save
for a little roll of paper, which
proved to be the addendum to
the log.
The coastguard said the man
must have tied up his own hands,
fastening the knots with his
teeth. The fact that a coastguard
was the first on board may save
some complications later on,
in the Admiralty Court, for coastguards
cannot claim the salvage which
is the right of the first civilian
entering on a derelict. Already,
however, the legal tongues are
wagging, and one young law student
is loudly asserting that the
rights of the owner are already
completely sacrificed, his property
being held in contravention of
the statues of mortmain, since
the tiller, as emblemship, if
not proof, of delegated possession,
is held in a dead hand.
It is needless to say that
the dead steersman has been reverently
removed from the place where
he held his honourable watch
and ward till death, a steadfastness
as noble as that of the young
Casabianca, and placed in the
mortuary to await inquest.
Already the sudden storm is
passing, and its fierceness is
abating. Crowds are scattering
backward, and the sky is beginning
to redden over the Yorkshire
wolds.
I shall send, in time for your
next issue, further details of
the derelict ship which found
her way so miraculously into
harbour in the storm.
9 August.--The sequel to the
strange arrival of the derelict
in the storm last night is almost
more startling than the thing
itself. It turns out that the
schooner is Russian from Varna,
and is called the Demeter. She
is almost entirely in ballast
of silver sand, with only a small
amount of cargo, a number of
great wooden boxes filled with
mould.
This cargo was consigned to
a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F.
Billington, of 7, The Crescent,
who this morning went aboard
and took formal possession of
the goods consigned to him.
The Russian consul, too, acting
for the charter-party, took formal
possession of the ship, and paid
all harbour dues, etc.
Nothing is talked about here
today except the strange coincidence.
The officials of the Board of
Trade have been most exacting
in seeing that every compliance
has been made with existing regulations.
As the matter is to be a `nine
days wonder', they are evidently
determined that there shall be
no cause of other complaint.
A good deal of interest was
abroad concerning the dog which
landed when the ship struck,
and more than a few of the members
of the S. P.C.A., which is very
strong in Whitby, have tried
to befriend the animal. To the
general disappointment, however,
it was not to be found. It seems
to have disappeared entirely
from the town. It may be that
it was frightened and made its
way on to the moors, where it
is still hiding in terror.
There are some who look with
dread on such a possibility,
lest later on it should in itself
become a danger, for it is evidently
a fierce brute. Early this morning
a large dog, a half-bred mastiff
belonging to a coal merchant
close to Tate Hill Pier, was
found dead in the roadway opposite
its master's yard. It had been
fighting, and manifestly had
had a savage opponent, for its
throat was torn away, and its
belly was slit open as if with
a savage claw.
Later.--By the kindness of
the Board of Trade inspector,
I have been permitted to look
over the log book of the Demeter,
which was in order up to within
three days, but contained nothing
of special interest except as
to facts of missing men. The
greatest interest, however, is
with regard to the paper found
in the bottle, which was today
produced at the inquest. And
a more strange narrative than
the two between them unfold it
has not been my lot to come across.
As there is no motive for concealment,
I am permitted to use them, and
accordingly send you a transcript,
simply omitting technical details
of seamanship and supercargo.
It almost seems as though the
captain had been seized with
some kind of mania before he
had got well into blue water,
and that this had developed persistently
throughout the voyage. Of course
my statement must be taken cum
grano, since I am writing from
the dictation of a clerk of the
Russian consul, who kindly translated
for me, time being short.
LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna
to Whitby
Written 18 July, things so
strange happening, that I shall
keep accurate note henceforth
till we land.
On 6 July we finished taking
in cargo, silver sand and boxes
of earth. At noon set sail. East
wind, fresh. Crew, five hands
. . . two mates, cook, and myself,
(captain).
On 11 July at dawn entered
Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish
Customs officers. Backsheesh.
All correct. Under way at 4 p.
m.
On 12 July through Dardanelles.
More Customs officers and flagboat
of guarding squadron. Backsheesh
again. Work of officers thorough,
but quick. Want us off soon.
At dark passed into Archipelago.
On 13 July passed Cape Matapan.
Crew dissatisfied about something.
Seemed scared, but would not
speak out.
On 14 July was somewhat anxious
about crew. Men all steady fellows,
who sailed with me before. Mate
could not make out what was wrong.
They only told him there was
SOME- THING, and crossed themselves.
Mate lost temper with one of
them that day and struck him.
Expected fierce quarrel, but
all was quiet.
On 16 July mate reported in
the morning that one of the crew,
Petrofsky, was missing. Could
not account for it. Took larboard
watch eight bells last night,
was relieved by Amramoff, but
did not go to bunk. Men more
downcast than ever. All said
they expected something of the
kind, but would not say more
than there was SOMETHING aboard.
Mate getting very impatient with
them. Feared some trouble ahead.
On 17 July, yesterday, one
of the men, Olgaren, came to
my cabin, and in an awestruck
way confided to me that he thought
there was a strange man aboard
the ship. He said that in his
watch he had been sheltering
behind the deckhouse, as there
was a rain storm, when he saw
a tall, thin man, who was not
like any of the crew, come up
the companionway, and go along
the deck forward and disappear.
He followed cautiously, but when
he got to bows found no one,
and the hatchways were all closed.
He was in a panic of superstitious
fear, and I am afraid the panic
may spread. To allay it, I shall
today search the entire ship
carefully from stem to stern.
Later in the day I got together
the whole crew, and told them,
as they evidently thought there
was some one in the ship, we
would search from stem to stern.
First mate angry, said it was
folly, and to yield to such foolish
ideas would demoralise the men,
said he would engage to keep
them out of trouble with the
handspike. I let him take the
helm, while the rest began a
thorough search, all keeping
abreast, with lanterns. We left
no corner unsearched. As there
were only the big wooden boxes,
there were no odd corners where
a man could hide. Men much relieved
when search over, and went back
to work cheerfully. First mate
scowled, but said nothing.
22 July.--Rough weather last
three days, and all hands busy
with sails, no time to be frightened.
Men seem to have forgotten their
dread. Mate cheerful again, and
all on good terms. Praised men
for work in bad weather. Passed
Gibraltar and out through Straits.
All well.
24 July.--There seems some
doom over this ship. Already
a hand short, and entering the
Bay of Biscay with wild weather
ahead, and yet last night another
man lost, disappeared. Like the
first, he came off his watch
and was not seen again. Men all
in a panic of fear, sent a round
robin, asking to have double
watch, as they fear to be alone.
Mate angry. Fear there will be
some trouble, as either he or
the men will do some violence.
28 July.--Four days in hell,
knocking about in a sort of malestrom,
and the wind a tempest. No sleep
for any one. Men all worn out.
Hardly know how to set a watch,
since no one fit to go on. Second
mate volunteered to steer and
watch, and let men snatch a few
hours sleep. Wind abating, seas
still terrific, but feel them
less, as ship is steadier.
29 July.--Another tragedy.
Had single watch tonight, as
crew too tired to double. When
morning watch came on deck could
find no one except steersman.
Raised outcry, and all came on
deck. Thorough search, but no
one found. Are now without second
mate, and crew in a panic. Mate
and I agreed to go armed henceforth
and wait for any sign of cause.
30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced
we are nearing England. Weather
fine, all sails set. Retired
worn out, slept soundly, awakened
by mate telling me that both
man of watch and steersman missing.
Only self and mate and two hands
left to work ship.
1 August.--Two days of fog,
and not a sail sighted. Had hoped
when in the English Channel to
be able to signal for help or
get in somewhere. Not having
power to work sails, have to
run before wind. Dare not lower,
as could not raise them again.
We seem to be drifting to some
terrible doom. Mate now more
demoralised than either of men.
His stronger nature seems to
have worked inwardly against
himself. Men are beyond fear,
working stolidly and patiently,
with minds made up to worst.
They are Russian, he Roumanian.
2 August, midnight.--Woke up
from few minutes sleep by hearing
a cry, seemingly outside my port.
Could see nothing in fog. Rushed
on deck, and ran against mate.
Tells me he heard cry and ran,
but no sign of man on watch.
One more gone. Lord, help us!
Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog
lifting he saw North Foreland,
just as he heard the man cry
out. If so we are now off in
the North Sea, and only God can
guide us in the fog, which seems
to move with us, and God seems
to have deserted us.
3 August.--At
midnight I went to relieve
the man at the wheel
and when I got to it found no
one there. The wind was steady,
and as we ran before it there
was no yawing. I dared not leave
it, so shouted for the mate.
After a few seconds, he rushed
up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard,
and I greatly fear his reason
has given way. He came close
to me and whispered hoarsely,
with his mouth to my ear, as
though fearing the very air might
hear. "It is here. I know it
now. On the watch last night
I saw It, like a man, tall and
thin, and ghastly pale. It was
in the bows, and looking out.
I crept behind It, and gave it
my knife, but the knife went
through It, empty as the air." And
as he spoke he took the knife
and drove it savagely into space.
Then he went on, "But It is here,
and I'll find It. It is in the
hold, perhaps in one of those
boxes. I'll unscrew them one
by one and see. You work the
helm." And with a warning look
and his finger on his lip, he
went below. There was springing
up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him
come out on deck again with a
tool chest and lantern, and go
down the forward hatchway. He
is mad, stark, raving mad, and
it's no use my trying to stop
him. He can't hurt those big
boxes, they are invoiced as clay,
and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do.
So here I stay and mind the helm,
and write these notes. I can
only trust in God and wait till
the fog clears. Then, if I can't
steer to any harbour with the
wind that is, I shall cut down
sails, and lie by, and signal
for help . . .
It is nearly
all over now. Just as I was
beginning to hope
that the mate would come out
calmer, for I heard him knocking
away at something in the hold,
and work is good for him, there
came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my
blood run cold, and up on the
deck he came as if shot from
a gun, a raging madman, with
his eyes rolling and his face
convulsed with fear. "Save me!
Save me!" he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of
fog. His horror turned to despair,
and in a steady voice he said,"You
had better come too, captain,
before it is too late. He is
there! I know the secret now.
The sea will save me from Him,
and it is all that is left!" Before
I could say a word, or move forward
to seize him, he sprang on the
bulwark and deliberately threw
himself into the sea. I suppose
I know the secret too, now. It
was this madman who had got rid
of the men one by one, and now
he has followed them himself.
God help me! How am I to account
for all these horrors when I
get to port? When I get to port!
Will that ever be?
4 August.--Still fog, which
the sunrise cannot pierce, I
know there is sunrise because
I am a sailor, why else I know
not. I dared not go below, I
dared not leave the helm, so
here all night I stayed, and
in the dimness of the night I
saw it, Him! God, forgive me,
but the mate was right to jump
overboard. It was better to die
like a man. To die like a sailor
in blue water, no man can object.
But I am captain, and I must
not leave my ship. But I shall
baffle this fiend or monster,
for I shall tie my hands to the
wheel when my strength begins
to fail, and along with them
I shall tie that which He, It,
dare not touch. And then, come
good wind or foul, I shall save
my soul, and my honour as a captain.
I am growing weaker, and the
night is coming on. If He can
look me in the face again, I
may not have time to act . .
.If we are wrecked, mayhap this
bottle may be found, and those
who find it may understand. If
not . . . well, then all men
shall know that I have been true
to my trust. God and the Blessed
Virgin and the Saints help a
poor ignorant soul trying to
do his duty . . .
Of course the verdict was an
open one. There is no evidence
to adduce, and whether or not
the man himself committed the
murders there is now none to
say. The folk here hold almost
universally that the captain
is simply a hero, and he is to
be given a public funeral. Already
it is arranged that his body
is to be taken with a train of
boats up the Esk for a piece
and then brought back to Tate
Hill Pier and up the abbey steps,
for he is to be buried in the
churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred
boats have already given in their
names as wishing to follow him
to the grave.
No trace has ever been found
of the great dog, at which there
is much mourning, for, with public
opinion in its present state,
he would, I believe, be adopted
by the town. Tomorrow will see
the funeral, and so will end
this one more `mystery of the
sea'.
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 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. |