Chapter V: 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.”