us.”
“There be food aplenty,” said Tabby with a frown, “even if your guests do be sich lowly specimens as ’em young curates.”
“Curates?” repeated Emily in dismay, as she broke from Keeper’s hug. “What—are they coming now?” She leapt up like a spring and started for the kitchen door, as if to close it; but at that moment, I heard the sound of the men’s arriving chatter as they entered through the front door. Both dogs’ ears perked up and they instantly bolted past Emily into the passage.
“No!” cried Emily, dashing after them.
I heard some bustle; then the dogs erupted wildly in the hall, amidst whose hollow space their deep barks resounded formidably.
“Down, sir! Down!” exclaimed a high-toned, imperious voice, which I recognised as Mr. Grant’s.
I raced into the entrance-hall with Anne at my heels. Keeper was bellowing ferociously and leaping on poor Mr. Grant. “Down, Keeper!” Emily and Branwell cried in unison. The dog paid no heed.
Mr. Grant, under attack, held up his arms to protect his face and wildly eyed the front door; but Branwell, Mr. Nicholls and papa (who had just joined the party from his study) stood behind him in the passage, blocking that avenue of escape. Instead, Mr. Grant turned and fled up the staircase two steps at a time. Keeper flung himself after the escaping gentleman. Emily threwherself bodily in front of the tawny beast, barring his access to the stairs as she struggled to grab hold of his large brass collar. The hound bayed and howled and hurled himself against her; Emily resolutely stood her ground, but she could not last long under such an onslaught.
I was about to rush to Emily’s aid, when all at once there came an entreating whistle, of the dog-calling variety. Keeper froze; with curious eyes and twitching ears, he looked round. The whistle had issued forth from the lips of Mr. Nicholls, who stood calmly in the centre of the hall.
“Here, boy,” said Mr. Nicholls, eyeing Keeper with close attention as he patted his thigh. “Come on, boy. Come here, now. There’s a good dog.”
Three
D iary, it was well-known to all the inhabitants of the village, that the mastiff at the parsonage was a singular animal. For the most part, Keeper was sullen, aloof, and indifferent to the rest of the world, shunning all attempts at affection except those of his mistress, whom he adored. On occasion, the beast took a fierce dislike to a particular individual; but I had never seen him tamed by any one other than Emily.
To my astonishment, the fire now instantly dissipated from Keeper’s bull-dog eyes; he descended onto all fours; and, as if a child responding to the Piper of Hamelin’s call, he trotted obediently back to the curate’s feet and calmly settled on his haunches. Mr. Nicholls crouched down and affectionately caressed the animal behind both ears, under his muzzle, and atop his head, speaking soft words of encouragement, as all assembled looked on in wonder and amazement.
“Thank you, Mr. Nicholls,” said I, as Emily, stunned and speechless, recovered and straightened her skirts.
“You are a genie, sir,” observed Branwell. “That dog has never let me so much as pat his head before.”
“Yet he is generally harmless,” I added. “I do not know what set him off.”
“Perhaps it was when Mr. Grant started kicking him,” said Mr. Nicholls.
“Ah!” I replied. “ That he will not take.” Moving to the balustrade, I called upstairs, “Mr. Grant! You may come down now. The coast is clear!”
I heard the sound of a chamber door opening from above, followed by timid footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Grant’s face appeared at the bend in the staircase as he peered cautiously over the rail. “Is the dog gone?”
Keeper, detecting the visitor’s re-emergence, cocked his head in that direction and emitted a low growl, even more terrible and menacing than his bark.
“ No,” said Mr. Nicholls quietly but firmly.
The growl stopped as
Mark Russinovich, Howard Schmidt