The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë Read Online Free PDF Page B

drink—and tea would not be his beverage of choice. One drink would invariably turn into three—or five; and the last thing we wanted was to see our brother drunk at his homecoming.
    “I promised papa particularly that we would come straight home,” said I.
    “It is not too hot,” added Anne quickly.
    “It is a lovely day, just perfect for a walk,” insisted Emily.
    Branwell sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very well. I see a man’s vote does not count in this company.”
    We proceeded down the main street of Keighley, a prosperous town, with its active, relatively new marketplace, and the row of handsome buildings surrounding it. The town’s location was not especially appealing, lying as it did in a hollow between hills, its skies often darkened by the fumes from the many factories nearby; but we were frequent visitors none the less, as Keighley’s many shops provided certain goods and services that were not available in our tiny village.
    “How is papa?” asked Anne.
    “He is never peevish, never impatient, only anxious and dejected,” replied Emily.
    “I worry about him so,” said Anne. “What will become of him—and us—if he goes blind? Will he lose his incumbency, do you think?”
    “Papa will not lose his incumbency,” insisted Branwell. “He is very highly regarded in the parish—and did you not say in your last letter, Charlotte, that he has hired a new curate?”
    “Yes: a Mr. Nicholls. I think him most disagreeable.”
    “Why?”
    “He is very reserved and insular.”
    “But is he competent? Does he perform his job well?”
    “It is too soon to tell. He started only a few weeks ago.”
    “This Mr. Nicholls must be a good man, if papa chose him,” said Anne.
    “Papa also chose James Smith,” I replied, “and he was coarse, arrogant, and mercenary.”
    “Papa would never repeat that mistake,” said Branwell. “If this Mr. Nicholls can handle even half of the parish duties on papa’s behalf, he will be worth his weight in gold.”
    We had reached the outskirts of town now, and began the long, scrambling climb up the wave-like hills past the factories, which sprouted at the roadside between rows of grey stone cottages. “How long are you home for, Branwell?” asked I. “A good month, I hope?”
    “I have to go back next week.”
    “Oh,” said Emily, disappointed. “Why such a short stay?”
    “I am needed at Thorp Green—but I will be home again in July. I will take the rest of my holiday when the Robinsons go off on theirs, to Scarborough.”
    “What is keeping you so fully occupied, that you cannot take a proper holiday?” I asked.
    I saw Anne dart a silent, sidelong glance at Branwell; he unaccountably coloured, and said quickly: “Well, in addition to tutoring the young Master Robinson, I am now also giving art lessons to all the women in the household.”
    “Art lessons?” said Emily. “How did that come about?”
    “Rather unexpectedly. When I mentioned one day to the lady of the house that I had studied drawing and painting as a youth, and had spent a year in Bradford trying to establish myself as a portrait painter, she insisted that I paint her portrait. Mrs. Robinson was so delighted with the result, that she asked me to teach her to paint—and her three daughters as well.”
    “What a fine outlet for your talent,” observed Emily.
    “As it turns out,” Branwell went on with enthusiasm, “Mrs.Robinson has quite an artistic bent herself. It is because she is so anxious to continue with her work in progress before they leave on holiday, that she has asked me to return within the week.”
    Diary: I admit I felt a tiny stab of envy at this delineation of Branwell’s newest artistic endeavours. Forgive me for possessing these feelings, which I know to be less than gracious; I shall strive to overcome them; but how many long years did I share, in vain, my brother’s ambition to become an artist? In our youth, my sisters and I all studied with the same