Branwell, I have mentioned, had obtained the situation of a private tutor.  Anne was also engaged as governess in the same family, and was thus a miserable witness to her brother’s deterioration of character at this period.  Of the causes of this deterioration I cannot speak; but the consequences were these.  He went home for his holidays reluctantly, stayed there as short a time as possible, perplexing and distressing them all by his extraordinary conduct—­at one time in the highest spirits, at another, in the deepest depression—­accusing himself of blackest guilt and treachery, without specifying what they were; and altogether evincing an irritability of disposition bordering on insanity.

Charlotte and Emily suffered acutely from his mysterious behaviour.  He expressed himself more than satisfied with his situation; he was remaining in it for a longer time than he had ever done in any kind of employment before; so that for some time they could not conjecture that anything there made him so wilful, and restless, and full of both levity and misery.  But a sense of something wrong connected with him, sickened and oppressed them.  They began to lose all hope in his future career.  He was no longer the family pride; an indistinct dread, caused partly by his own conduct, partly by expressions of agonising suspicion in Anne’s letters home, was creeping over their minds that he might turn out their deep disgrace.  But, I believe, they shrank from any attempt to define their fears, and spoke of him to each other as little as possible.  They could not help but think, and mourn, and wonder.

“Feb. 20th, 1845.

“I spent a week at H., not very pleasantly; headache, sickliness, and flatness of spirits, made me a poor companion, a sad drag on the vivacious and loquacious gaiety of all the other inmates of the house.  I never was fortunate enough to be able to rally, for as much as a single hour, while I was there.  I am sure all, with the exception perhaps of Mary, were very glad when I took my departure.  I begin to perceive that I have too little life in me, now-a-days, to be fit company for any except very quiet people.  Is it age, or what else, that changes me so?”

Alas! she hardly needed to have asked this question.  How could she be otherwise than “flat-spirited,” “a poor companion,” and a “sad drag” on the gaiety of those who were light-hearted and happy!  Her honest plan for earning her own livelihood had fallen away, crumbled to ashes; after all her preparations, not a pupil had offered herself; and, instead of being sorry that this wish of many years could not be realised, she had reason to be glad.  Her poor father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his blind helplessness; but this was a sacred pious charge, the duties of which she was blessed in fulfilling.  The black gloom hung over what had once been the brightest hope of the family—­over Branwell, and the mystery in which his wayward conduct