my sister clara is four years younger than i am. in form of face, in complexion, and — except the eyes — in features, she bears a striking resemblance to my father. her expressions however, must be very like what my mother’s was. whenever i have looked at her in her silent and thoughtful moments, she has always appeared to freshen, and even to increase, my vague, childish recollections of our lost mother. her eyes have that slight tinge of melancholy in their tenderness, and that peculiar softness in their repose, which is only seen in blue eyes. her complexion, pale as my father’s when she is neither speaking nor moving, has in a far greater degree than his the tendency to flush, not merely in moments of agitation, but even when she is walking, or talking on any subject that interests her. without this peculiarity her paleness would be a defect. with it, the absence of any colour in her complexion but the fugitive uncertain colour which i have described, would to some eyes debar her from any claims to beauty. and a beauty perhaps she is not — at least, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.

the lower part of her face is rather too small for the upper, her figure is too slight, the sensitiveness of her nervous organization is too constantly visible in her actions and her looks. she would not fix attention and admiration in a box at the opera; very few men passing her in the street would turn round to look after her; very few women would regard her with that slightingly attentive stare, that steady depreciating scrutiny, which a dashing decided beauty so often receives (and so often triumphs in receiving) from her personal inferiors among her own sex. the greatest charms that my sister has on the surface, come from beneath it.

when you really knew her, when she spoke to you freely, as to a friend — then, the attraction of her voice, her smile her manner, impressed you indescribably. her slightest words and her commonest actions interested and delighted you, you knew not why. there was a beauty about her unassuming simplicity, her natural — exquisitely natural — kindness of heart, and word, and manner, which preserved its own unobtrusive influence over you, in spite of all other rival influences, be they what they might. you missed and thought of her, when you were fresh from the society of the most beautiful and the most brilliant women. you remembered a few kind, pleasant words of hers when you forgot the wit of the wittiest ladies, the learning of the most learned. the influence thus possessed, and unconsciously possessed, by my sister over every one with whom she came in contact — over men especially — may, i think be very simply accounted for, in very few sentences.

we live in an age when too many women appear to be ambitious of morally unsexing themselves before society, by aping the language and the manners of men — especially in reference to that miserable modern dandyism of demeanour, which aims at repressing all betrayal of warmth of feeling; which abstains from displaying any enthusiasm on any subject whatever; which, in short, labours to make the fashionable imperturbability of the face the faithful reflection of the fashionable imperturbability of the mind. women of this exclusively modern order, like to use slang expressions in their conversation; assume a bastard-masculine abruptness in their manners, a bastard-masculine licence in their opinions; affect to ridicule those outward developments of feeling which pass under the general appellation of “sentiment.” nothing impresses, agitates, amuses, or delights them in a hearty, natural, womanly way. sympathy looks ironical, if they ever show it: love seems to be an affair of calculation, or mockery, or contemptuous sufferance, if they ever feel it.

to women such as these, my sister clara presented as complete a contrast as could well be conceived. in this contrast lay the secret of her influence, of the voluntary tribute of love and admiration which followed her wherever she went.

few men have not their secret moments of deep feeling — moments when, amid the wretched trivialities and hypocrisies of modern society, the image will present itself to their minds of some woman, fresh, innocent, gentle, sincere; some woman whose emotions are still warm and impressible, whose affections and sympathies can still appear in her actions, and give the colour to her thoughts; some woman in whom we could put as perfect faith and trust, as if we were children; whom we despair of finding near the hardening influences of the world; whom we could scarcely venture to look for, except in solitary places far away in the country; in little rural shrines, shut up from society, among woods and fields, and lonesome boundary-hills. when any women happen to realise, or nearly to realise, such an image as this, they possess that universal influence which no rivalry can ever approach. on them really depends, and by then is really preserved, that claim upon the sincere respect and admiration of men, on which the power of the whole sex is based — the power so often assumed by the many, so rarely possessed but by the few.

it was thus with my sister. thus, wherever she went, though without either the inclination, or the ambition to shine, she eclipsed women who were her superiors in beauty, in accomplishments, in brilliancy of manners and conversation — conquering by no other weapon than the purely feminine charm of everything she said, and everything she did.

but it was not amid the gaiety and grandeur of a london season that her character was displayed to the greatest advantage. it was when she was living where she loved to live, in the old country-house, among the old friends and old servants who would every one of them have died a hundred deaths for her sake, that you could study and love her best. then, the charm there was in the mere presence of the kind, gentle, happy young english girl, who could enter into everybody’s interests, and be grateful for everybody’s love, possessed its best and brightest influence. at picnics, lawn-parties, little country gatherings of all sorts, she was, in her own quiet, natural manner, always the presiding spirit of general comfort and general friendship. even the rigid laws of country punctilio relaxed before her unaffected cheerfulness and irresistible good-nature. she always contrived — nobody ever knew how — to lure the most formal people into forgetting their formality, and becoming natural for the rest of the day. even a heavy-headed, lumbering, silent country squire was not too much for her. she managed to make him feel at his ease, when no one else would undertake the task; she could listen patiently to his confused speeches about dogs, horses, and the state of the crops, when other conversations were proceeding in which she was really interested; she could receive any little grateful attention that he wished to pay her — no matter how awkward or ill-timed — as she received attentions from any one else, with a manner which showed she considered it as a favour granted to her sex, not as a right accorded to it.

so, again, she always succeeded in diminishing the long list of those pitiful affronts and offences, which play such important parts in the social drama of country society. she was a perfect apostle-errant of the order of reconciliation; and wherever she went, cast out the devil sulkiness from all his strongholds — the lofty and the lowly alike. our good rector used to call her his volunteer curate; and declare that she preached by a timely word, or a persuasive look, the best practical sermons on the blessings of peace-making that were ever composed.

with all this untiring good-nature, with all this resolute industry in the task of making every one happy whom she approached, there was mingled some indescribable influence, which invariably preserved her from the presumption, even of the most presuming people. i never knew anybody venturesome enough — either by word or look — to take a liberty with her. there was something about her which inspired respect as well as love. my father, following the bent of his peculiar and favourite ideas, always thought it was the look of her race in her eyes, the ascendancy of her race in her manners. i believe it to have proceeded from a simpler and a better cause. there is a goodness of heart, which carries the shield of its purity over the open hand of its kindness: and that goodness was hers.

to my father, she was more, i believe, than he himself ever imagined — or will ever know, unless he should lose her. he was often, in his intercourse with the world, wounded severely enough in his peculiar prejudices and peculiar refinements — he was always sure to find the first respected, and the last partaken by her. he could trust in her implicitly, he could feel assured that she was not only willing, but able, to share and relieve his domestic troubles and anxieties. if he had been less fretfully anxious about his eldest son; if he had wisely distrusted from the first his own powers of persuading and reforming, and had allowed clara to exercise her influence over ralph more constantly and more completely than he really did, i am persuaded that the long-expected epoch of my brother’s transformation would have really arrived by this time, or even before it.

the strong and deep feelings of my sister’s nature lay far below the surface — for a woman, too far below it. suffering was, for her, silent, secret, long enduring; often almost entirely void of outward vent or development. i never remember seeing her in tears, except on rare and very serious occasions. unless you looked at her narrowly, you would judge her to be little sensitive to ordinary griefs and troubles. at such times, her eyes only grew dimmer and less animated than usual; the paleness of her complexion became rather more marked; her lips closed and trembled involuntarily — but this was all: there was no sighing, no weeping, no speaking even. and yet she suffered acutely. the very strength of her emotions was in their silence and their secresy. i, of all others — i, guilty of infecting with my anguish the pure heart that loved me — ought to know this best!

how long i might linger over all that she has done for me! as i now approach nearer and nearer to the pages which are to reveal my fatal story, so i am more and more tempted to delay over those better and purer remembrances of my sister which now occupy my mind. the first little presents — innocent girlish presents — which she secretly sent to me at school; the first sweet days of our uninterrupted intercourse, when the close of my college life restored me to home; her first inestimable sympathies with my first fugitive vanities of embryo authorship, are thronging back fast and fondly on my thoughts, while i now write.

but these memories must be calmed and disciplined. i must be collected and impartial over my narrative — if it be only to make that narrative show fairly and truly, without suppression or exaggeration, all that i have owed to her.

not merely all that i have owed to her; but all that i owe to her now. though i may never see her again, but in my thoughts; still she influences, comforts, cheers me on to hope, as if she were already the guardian spirit of the cottage where i live. even in my worst moments of despair, i can still remember that clara is thinking of me and sorrowing for me: i can still feel that remembrance, as an invisible hand of mercy which supports me, sinking; which raises me, fallen; which may yet lead me safely and tenderly to my hard journey’s end.