THE SISTERS.
“That garden story’s true--I never doubt it;
In spite of all I must Belle Eve believe;
Though some there are who boldly dare to scout it,
And say it was intended to deceive.
That portion surely which relates to you
Is natural, and therefore must be true.”
--EDWARD WILLETT.
Diana Kingsley and Evelyn, her sister, are distant relatives of the
Leigh family, and belong to that numerous class of genteel people who
are far from being comfortably well-off, but by virtue of good blood
and aristocratic connections hold themselves above the “common herd,”
and scorn to soil their white hands with labor. Their father being a
lawyer of third-class abilities, they keep up a certain dignity of
position, dress well, live well, and aim at a rich marriage as the
chief end of woman.
Diana Kingsley is a beauty in her way, a veritable “snow-maiden,”
tall, fair, graceful, with flaxen hair and eyes of pale, glittering,
glacier-like blue. Art and nature have both united to make up a
charming personnel for Miss Kingsley, but at twenty-three she is still
unwedded--still blooms:
“A pale, ungathered rose,
On her ancestral tree.”
Nature has not exhausted much effort in trying to make a beauty of
Evelyn Kingsley. She is not as tall and graceful as Diana; her skin is
darker, and requires a touch of rose-pink to relieve its sallowness.
Her eyes are pale blue, her hair is pale gold, but too scanty to
add much to her charms. Fortunately the hair-dresser can supply the
deficiency, and really, with the aid of pearl powder and rose-pink, Eve
makes up into quite a stylish girl--not a blonde angel like her sister,
nor a brunette beauty like her cousin, but still a dashing girl, and
a vivacious flirt, with a great fund of small-talk and effervescent
spirit.
They profess themselves tired this first evening, and retire early,
Charlton surmises, “for a beauty sleep, that they may begin the
campaign early next morning.” Vivian does not linger either. She goes
to her pillow, but sad thoughts bear her company. This day, which she
had anticipated with such pleasure--this first day after the “boys”
came--what a long, weary, disappointing day it had been!
Next morning they all meet at breakfast bright and smiling, hiding
their wounds like the Spartan boy, under figurative “cloaks.”
“You must all enjoy yourselves in your own fashion,” the young hostess
says, after breakfast, when they have adjourned to the piazza. “You can
walk or ride, or amuse yourselves in any way, only don’t expect much
of me until my lame foot gets well.”
“Oh, I forgot to ask you how you hurt your foot,” exclaimed Eve
curiously.
“I stepped on a splinter of broken glass.”
“Yesterday?”
“The night of the ball,” explains Earle Essex. “She dropped a glass of
wine, and in stepping aside set her foot on a splinter of the broken
crystal.”
“Rather awkward of you to drop it, Viva,” Eve comments.
“Not under the circumstances,” Charlton puts in lazily. “You see,
according to the custom of your sex as far back as your first
ancestress, Eve, she was engaged in tempting the man, and the
man--grown wiser than Adam--withstood the temptation.”
“I am all at sea. Explain,” Diana says imperiously to Mr. Essex, who is
by her side, and in a few words, coldly condemnatory of Max Verne, he
obeys.
“Rude fellow!” ejaculates Eve, and her sister adds, with airy contempt:
“One never expects Max Verne to act like other people! He is an odd
genius, they say, and scarcely knows the taste of ardent spirits.”
“Nor even of tobacco, I’ve heard. Is it true, Charlton?” asks Eve.
“Perfectly true. You see, Max is a fine, handsome fellow, with a
splendid physique, and prefers his high health and strength to the
small vices other men affect. I admire his abstinence principles, but
prefer my cigar.”
“I rather like the perfume of a fine cigar,” remarks Eve.
“It is a fascinating vice,” her cousin answers carelessly. “But Max
opposes tobacco on hygienic grounds. As a devoted student of the art
of healing, he cannot reasonably ignore the teachings of science that
convince him of the pernicious effects of the tobacco leaf on the human
system.”
“He has chosen his profession, then?” queries Eve, with new interest in
the handsome absentee. “He will be a physician?”
“He will be a physician--yes. But, _chere cousine_, let me amend your
phraseology. His profession has chosen him.”
“You are very provoking, Charlton. How do you make it out so oddly?”
“It is simple fact, Eve. Very many men choose their life-work, led by
adventitious circumstances, such as the wishes of friends, the chances
of fortune, and so often fall into error, and miss their true vocation
or calling. Max Verne has always seemed to me born for a doctor, and
he has recognized the fact and offered himself up on the altar of the
almost divine art that has chosen him for its disciple.”
Vivian listens in pleased surprise. Usually her brother is too indolent
to waste his breath in warm weather, and it is certainly wasting
breath to talk to Evelyn Kingsley of anything but fashion, dress, and
frivolity. Eve is dreadfully bored, but she stifles a yawn and tries to
rise equal to the occasion. For is not Charlton an “eligible,” and if
he talks high-flown nonsense she must appear to be interested. So she
looks thoughtful, and replies gravely:
“But how is one to recognize one’s calling truly? Is it not possible to
make mistakes sometimes? Is nature’s instinct unerring?”
“Nature has written our powers and capabilities so plainly on our heads
and faces, Eve, that one may determine his vocation by the bumps on his
cranium.”
There is a general laugh, and Earle Essex comes to Eve’s assistance by
saying good-naturedly:
“Don’t argue with him, Miss Eve. There is method in his madness. He has
been dabbling in phrenology.”
“Oh, Charlton, have you?” cries his sister eagerly.
“A little,” he answers dryly.
“At college?”
“Why no; it was in New York. When I was up there, visiting sisters
Viola and Musa. Drifting about with that staid brother-in-law of
ours, Professor Van Dysart, he took me to the American Institute of
Phrenology, and whom should I meet there but my old college chum, Max
Verne--a regular student of the summer class. Of course I was in for it
then, and joined the class.”
“So that was where Max learned his vocation,” Viva comments, blushing
as she speaks his name.
“Yes; Van Dysart went into ecstacies over that fine head and white brow
that ladies call so noble, and talked much of the large perceptive
faculties, full destructiveness, combativeness, and cautiousness
that would render his success as a physician or surgeon certain and
remarkable. But I suppose this is all Greek to you, ladies. Let us take
a rest, and discuss this tempting basket of peaches.”
“Did you find out your vocation, Charlton?” asks the languid Diana.
“Yes--that of an idler,” he replies coolly, as he passes around the
fruit.
“Tell me all about my bumps, darling,” coaxes Vivian, laying her dark
curly head on his knee.
Charlton laughs as he manipulates the little head with a graceful white
hand on which a diamond ring catches the sun’s rays like sparks of fire.
“Viva, your cranial developments only indicate what I have known of you
all my life. You have small cautiousness and secretiveness, which makes
you hasty in judgment, and rash in saying and doing things you are
sure to repent of afterward. You have moderate firmness only--I could
wish you had more--full moral sentiments, large conscientiousness,
spirituality, plenty of ideality. In short, little sister, you ought to
be a poet if there’s any truth in phrenology.”
“How flattering! Won’t you indicate my vocation, please?”
It is Eve’s gay voice, and he answers, lightly:
“I cannot undertake to find bumps under all those heavy braids. I will
confine myself to physiognomy. That sharp little nose of yours, Eve, is
the unerring sign-board of a busybody. You will always be at pains to
find out all the news--especially other people’s business.”
Eve pouts at this home-thrust, but she is used to giving and taking
home-thrusts from this indifferent cousin. Ere she can rally her forces
for a sharp retort, Essex breaks in:
“Won’t you favor me, professor?”
Charlton frowns as his hand strays over the low brow, and among the
dusky locks.
“I can tell you, Essex, you will never make your mark on the age.
Superficial--weak in conscientiousness--firmness perverted--moral
sentiments only moderate. You will stickle at little to further your
wishes. Really, I would not like to incur your enmity. Better study
phrenology, _mon ami_, and learn how to reform these leading traits.”
Essex’s face is scarlet as he grumbles:
“Thanks, but I do not pin my faith to this new-fangled science.”
“I fear to submit my poor little head to your merciless dissection,”
laughs Diana.
But his hand has already fallen on the graceful flaxen head, with its
wealth of shining tresses. He is silent a moment, then taps her white
brow, vexedly:
“Diana, you handsome, selfish creature, your head is too small to hold
anything but vanity and frivolity; I could put your little contracted
soul in Vivian’s gold thimble.”
“Charlton, you must not tease so. You will hurt somebody’s feelings,”
remonstrated Viva.
“As if he cared,” says Diana in lofty scorn. “And of course no one
believes such superlative nonsense.”
“Do be quiet, children,” responds the professor of phrenology
undauntedly. “I have always known that people never relish hearing the
truth about themselves. I only wish Van Dysart were here to descant on
your cranial developments. Then we might see some quailing. I propose
that we all meet him here next summer with Musa. In the meantime, my
dears, forget my rudeness, and solace yourselves with peaches. Diana,
here is the loveliest one in the basket.”