The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë by Syrie James Read Free Book Online Page A

quickly as it had begun; the dog held up his huge, blunt, stupid head to be patted, and soon was again panting and slobbering contentedly. I was beginning to wonder if I had misjudged Mr. Nicholls; a man who was so good and gentle with animals might have other hidden qualities, might he not?
    “There is no reason to be frightened,” said Emily, stifling a laugh as she glanced up at Mr. Grant. “Keeper will not hurt you. His uproars are all sound and fury, signifying nothing—and he is quite calm now.”
    “I will not come down until that dog is locked up, or put outside!” was Mr. Grant’s reply.
    “Emily, put him out,” said papa, who had been standing silently beside Flossy through the hubbub.
    “Yes, sir.” Emily obediently retrieved the animal from Mr. Nicholls with a silent nod, and removed him to the yard.
    Papa took advantage of the reprieve to embrace Branwell and Anne and heartily welcome them home. Mr. Nicholls, meanwhile, turned his attention to Flossy, who now basked in the same affectionate treatment Keeper had received. “What’s this fellow’s name?”
    “Flossy,” I replied.
    “Aren’t you a beauty?” said Mr. Nicholls. “One of the finest King Charles spaniels I have ever seen.”
    “That other dog is a menace!” cried Mr. Grant, as he descended the stairs and rejoined the party. “Did you see how he sprang at me? Why, he very nearly bit my head off! I was afraid for my life!”
    “Next time,” said Branwell, “you ought to let Mr. Nicholls go in the door before you. He clearly has the magic touch.”
    “There will be no next time,” asserted Mr. Grant, as we all filtered into the dining-room, where Martha was adding two more place settings to the table. “I will not set foot in this house again, without an assurance that that animal is locked up and out of sight. I wonder, Reverend Brontë”—(with a stern glance at me and Emily, as she returned)—“that you allow your daughters to keep such a dangerous creature at the parsonage.”
    “Dangerous?” replied papa with a smile. “Why, Keeper wouldn’t hurt a cat. He eats like a horse, and he costs me eight shillings a year for the dog tax, but I think he’s worth every penny.”
    “We keep him, sir,” added Emily, “because we are fond of him. It is how he earned his name.”
    “You cannot be serious,” said Mr. Grant. He and Mr. Nicholls sat down across the table from my sisters and myself, while papa and Branwell took their customary positions at the head and foot. “I can’t fancy a lady fond of an ugly brute like that. ’Tis a mere carter’s 9 dog.”
    “A carter’s dog?” I repeated in amusement. “I hardly think so.” Martha began serving out the meal. Wine was conspicuously absent from the table; we never risked serving an alcoholic beverage when Branwell was home, and every one in the room knew why, except perhaps the newcomer, Mr. Nicholls—but either he did not notice, or he was too polite to mention it.
    I felt Mr. Nicholls’s eyes on me across the dining-table, andreturned the gaze. He immediately looked away. “Mr. Nicholls: you got on well with our ugly brute. Pray sir, defend our choice.”
    “A mastiff is a fine animal, and one of the noblest of his race,” said Mr. Nicholls, glancing at me briefly. “However, they are bred as guard dogs and attack dogs. In truth, Miss Brontë, I think you’d be better off giving him to one of the farmers in the parish to protect his livestock, and purchasing in his stead a breed more appropriate to the fairer sex.”
    Emily gave a little gasp of annoyance at this statement; I found it only amusing. “Indeed?” said I. “What breed of dog might you consider more appropriate to a person of our gender, Mr. Nicholls?”
    “Ladies as a rule typically prefer lap-dogs,” replied Mr. Nicholls.
    “Something small and sweet,” agreed Mr. Grant with a nod, “like a pug or poodle.”
    I laughed out loud. “Well then, please consider my sisters and me as