Various Tragedies
Emily, obedient to Aunt Elizabeth’s command, had eliminated the word “bull” from her vocabulary. But to ignore the existence of bulls was not to do away with them — and specifically with Mr James Lee’s English bull, who inhabited the big windy pasture west of Blair Water and who bore a dreadful reputation. He was certainly an awesome looking creature and Emily sometimes had fearful dreams of being chased by him and being unable to move. And one sharp November day these dreams came true.
There was a certain well at the far end of the pasture concerning which Emily felt a curiosity, because Cousin Jimmy had told her a dreadful tale about it. The well had been dug sixty years ago by two brothers who lived in a little house which was built down near the shore. It was a very deep well, which was considered a curious thing in that lowlying land near pond and sea; the brothers had gone ninety feet before they found a spring. Then the sides of the well had been stoned up — but the work never went farther. Thomas and Silas Lee had quarrelled over some trivial difference of opinion as to what kind of a hood should be put over it; and in the heat of his anger Silas had struck Thomas on the head with his hammer and killed him.
The well-house was never built. Silas Lee was sent to prison for manslaughter and died there. The farm passed to another brother — Mr James Lee’s father — who moved the house to the other end of it and planked the well over. Cousin Jimmy added that Tom Lee’s ghost was supposed to haunt the scene of his tragic death but he couldn’t vouch for that, though he had written a poem on it. A very eerie poem it was, too, and made Emily’s blood run cold with a fearful joy when he recited it to her one misty night by the big potato pot. Ever since she had wanted to see the old well.
Her chance came one Saturday when she was prowling alone in the old graveyard. Beyond it lay the Lee pasture and there was apparently not a sign of a bull in or about it. Emily decided to pay a visit to the old well and went skimming down the field against the sweep of the north wind racing across the gulf. The Wind Woman was a giantess that day and a mighty swirl she was stirring up along the shore; but as Emily drew near the big sand-dunes they made a little harbour of calmness around the old well.
Emily coolly lifted up one of the planks, knelt on the others and peered down. Fortunately the planks were strong and comparatively new — otherwise the small maiden of New Moon might have explored the well more thoroughly than she desired to do. As it was, she could see little of it; huge ferns grew thickly out of the crevices among the stones of its sides and reached across it, shutting out the view of its gloomy depths. Rather disappointed, Emily replaced the plank and started homeward. She had not gone ten steps before she stopped. Mr James Lee’s bull was coming straight towards her and was less than twenty yards away.
The shore fence was not far behind Emily, and she might possibly have reached it in time had she run. But she was incapable of running; as she wrote that night in her letter to her father she was “parralised” with terror and could no more move than she could in her dreams of this very occurrence. It is quite conceivable that a dreadful thing might have happened then and there had not a certain boy been sitting on the shore fence. He had been sitting there unnoticed all the time Emily had been peering into the well, now he sprang down.
Emily saw, or sensed, a sturdy body dashing past her. The owner thereof ran to within ten feet of the bull, hurled a stone squarely into the monster’s hairy face, then sped off at right angles towards the side fence. The bull, thus insulted, turned with a menacing rumble and lumbered off after this intruder.
“Run now!” screamed the boy over his shoulder to Emily.
Emily did not run. Terrified as she was, there was something in her that would not let her run until she saw whether her gallant rescuer made good his escape. He reached his fence in the nick of time. Then and not till then Emily ran too, and scrambled over the shore fence just as the bull started back across the pasture, evidently determined to catch somebody. Trembling, she made her way through the spiky grass of the sandhills and met the boy at the corner. They stood and looked at each other for a moment.
The boy was a stranger to Emily. He had a cheery, impudent, clean-cut face, with keen, grey eyes and plenty of tawny curls. He wore as few clothes as decency permitted and had only the pretence of a hat. Emily liked him; there was nothing of Teddy’s subtle charm in him but he had a certain forceful attraction of his own and he had just saved her from a terrible death.
“Thank you,” said Emily shyly, looking up at him with great grey eyes that looked blue under her long lashes. It was a very effective look which lost nothing of effectiveness from being wholly unconscious. Nobody had as yet told Emily how very winsome that shy, sudden, up-glance of hers was.
“Isn’t he a rip-snorter?” said the boy easily. He thrust his hands into his ragged pockets and stared at Emily so fixedly that she dropped her eyes in confusion — thereby doing further damage with those demure lids and silken fringes.
“He’s dreadful,” she said with a shudder. “And I was so scared.”
“Were you now? And me thinking you were full of grit to be standing there like that looking at him cool as a cucumber. What’s it like to be afraid?”
“Weren’t you ever afraid?” asked Emily.
“No — don’t know what it’s like,” said the boy carelessly, and a bit boastfully. “What’s your name?”
“Emily Byrd Starr.”
“Live round here?”
“I live at New Moon.”
“Where Simple Jimmy Murray lives?”
“He isn’t simple,” cried Emily indignantly.
“Oh, all right. I don’t know him. But I’m going to. I’m going to hire with him for chore boy for the winter.”
“I didn’t know,” said Emily, surprised. “Are you really?”
“Yep. I didn’t know it myself till just this minute. He was asking Aunt Tom about me last week but I didn’t mean to hire out then. Now I guess I will. Want to know my name?”
“Of course.”
“Perry Miller. I live with my old beast of an Aunt Tom down at Stovepipe Town. Dad was a sea captain and I uster sail with him when he was alive — sailed everywhere. Go to school?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t — never did. Aunt Tom lives so far away. Anyhow, I didn’t think I’d like it. Guess I’ll go now, though.”
“Can’t you read?” asked Emily wonderingly.
“Yes — some — and figger. Dad learned me some when he was alive. I hain’t bothered with it since — I’d ruther be down round the harbour. Great fun there. But if I make up my mind to go to school I’ll learn like thunder. I s’pose you’re awful clever.”
“No — not very. Father said I was a genius, but Aunt Elizabeth says I’m just queer.”
“What’s a genius?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes it’s a person who writes poetry. I write poetry.”
Perry stared at her.
“Golly. I’ll write poetry too, then.”
“I don’t believe you could write poetry,” said Emily — a little disdainfully, it must be admitted. “Teddy can’t — and he’s very clever.”
“Who’s Teddy?”
“A friend of mine.” There was just a trace of stiffness in Emily’s voice.
“Then,” said Perry, folding his arms across his breast and scowling, “I’m going to punch this friend of yours’ head for him.”