You see the implication?  It was Charlotte who drove him to the “Black Bull”.  That was Branwell’s impression of Charlotte.  Just the sort of impression that an opium-eater would have of a beloved sister.

But Branwell’s impression was good enough for Madame Duclaux to found her theory on.  Her theory is that Charlotte was inferior to Emily in tenderness.  It may well be so, and yet Charlotte would remain above most women tender, for Emily’s wealth would furnish forth a score of sisters.  The simple truth is that Charlotte had nerves, and Branwell was extremely trying.  And it is possible that Emily had less to bear, that in her detachment she was protected more than Charlotte from Branwell at his worst.

Meanwhile tales were abroad presenting Charlotte in the queerest lights.  There is that immortal story of how Thackeray gave a party for Currer Bell at his house in Young Street, and how Currer Bell had a headache and lay on a sofa in the back drawing-room, and refused to talk to anybody but the governess; and how Thackeray at last, very late, with a finger on his lip, stole out of the house and took refuge in his club.  No wonder if this quaint and curious Charlotte survived in the memory of Thackeray’s daughter.  But, even apart from the headache, you can see how it came about, how the sight of the governess evoked Charlotte Bronte’s unforgotten agony.  She saw in the amazed and cheerful lady her own sad youth, slighted and oppressed, solitary in a scene of gaiety—­she could not have seen her otherwise—­and her warm heart rushed out to her.  She was determined that that governess should have a happy evening if nobody else had.  Her behaviour was odd, if you like, it was even absurd, but it had the sublimity of vicarious expiation.  Has anyone ever considered its significance, the magnitude of her deed?  For Charlotte, to be the guest of honour on that brilliant night, in the house of Thackeray, her divinity, was to touch the topmost height of fame.  And she turned her back on the brilliance and the fame and the face of her divinity, and offered herself up in flames as a sacrifice for all the governesses that were and had ever been and would be.

And after the fine stories came the little legends—­things about Charlotte when she was a governess herself at Mrs. Sidgwick’s, and the tittle-tattle of the parish.  One of the three curates whom Charlotte made so shockingly immortal avenged himself for his immortality by stating that the trouble with Charlotte was that she would fight for mastery in the parish.  Who can believe him?  If there is one thing that seems more certain than another it is Charlotte’s utter indifference to parochial matters.  But Charlotte was just, and she may have objected to the young man’s way with the Dissenters; we know that she did very strongly object to Mr. William Weightman’s way.  And that, I imagine, was the trouble between Charlotte and the curates.