My little half-sister-- Until the Soul spoke of her there was no vision, no image like her. Then something of me remembered.
Said I: ‘What was she like? Who were our parents?’
Said the Soul: ‘Your mother died at your birth, hers at her birth. Your father was hanged at Tyburn for forgery. The sister was pale, large-eyed, long-haired, crippled from a dislocated shoulder and hip. When you were twenty-five she was eleven, a beautiful frail child. You lived in two rooms above a linen-draper’s and you supported the two of you by weaving and calendering cloths for the shop-keeper, and by illuminating missals and manuscripts when you could get that work. For a very poor wage, but living was cheap. All the time you took zealous care of your sister. Your heart was bound up in her--you adored her.’
Said I: ‘I know that. Tell me what we did--how we lived--how we loved each other.’
Said the Soul: ‘In the summer evenings you often walked out along quiet London streets--the sister sometimes with a crutch and your arm about her, sometimes in a rolling chair, whilst you walked beside her pushing it. Your father had educated you in an erratic fashion. You had a deal of desultory knowledge--what is called knowledge--and you educated the young sister in the same manner. Often it was of the poets--Latin, English, Italian, and of histories and sciences and arts--what odd comprehensive bits you knew--that you two talked as you sauntered in the bright late English sunlight. Or you talked of the little details of your joint life. Sometimes you sat together--you holding her close in your arms--by a window in your darkening front room, and watched the children at play in the common opposite, and conversed and were quietly happy. You were maternal and the child was a mature old-fashioned yet childish innocent child.’
My little sister--sweet--long gone-- Would that I had her now!
Said the Soul: ‘You said to her, “Our poverty and even our deprivations, dearest, which for your sake I feel deeply would not matter, not the least, to me if I could see you well and strong.” And the child replied, “Sweet, just to rest like this in your arms each twilight makes me rich, rich--as rich as the smartest ladies in Piccadilly.” And you said, “Rich reminds me, Darling, we shall have four extra shillings--four bright silver shillings--at the end of this week from the book-seller. So what shall we purchase for a treat? There’ll be, if you like, prawns and crumpets for tea, for days to come--or if my Child prefers oranges or pineapples once--” And the child replied with her cheeks quite pink at the thought, “O Sister-love, let us have the pines, just one day, and let us make-believe to be ladies that day, and comport ourselves like ladies, and take our tea--all like ladies.” And you pressed her close to your breast--you both wore caps and kerchiefs and stuff-gowns in the fashion of the lower-middle artisan class--and showered gentle kisses on her cheeks and eyelids, and promised her the pineapples and the tea like ladies.’