At length one day, the family, as usual, with the exception of India, sat down to dinner. There were present Clement and Paul Sutherland, Mrs. Vivian, Miss Vivian, Mr. Bolling, Mark, and Lincoln—a party of seven persons claiming to be refined women, or honorable men; in a word, ladies and gentlemen—enough, under any emergency, to preserve the decencies of a family dinner-table. Clement Sutherland, the host, sat with the usual cloud upon his brow. When the waiter was about to lift the cover from the dish before him, he arrested his act, by saying—“Stop, sir! where is Miss Sutherland? Go, and let her know that dinner waits.”
The man bowed and left the room. An embarrassing pause and silence ensued, during which Clement Sutherland sat back in his chair, with a scowl upon his yellow forehead, with an expression and an attitude that he doubtless supposed to be awfully tragic and imposing, and which, in truth, was inexpressibly disagreeable, and even alarming; for all present felt that under all that ridiculous dramatic acting there was some real offence meant—some mean, unmanly, inhospitable act to be perpetrated. In about ten minutes, the servant returned. Entering, and stepping lightly, he went up to his master’s side, bowed, and in a low voice said—“Miss Sutherland, sir, has ordered me to say that she desires to be excused.” And, with another bow, the waiter retired, and stood behind his master’s chair. Clement Sutherland started up with an angry gesture, pushed his chair violently behind him, to the risk of upsetting my gentleman-waiter, and exclaimed—“Sirs, I have to ask you if the laws of hospitality are to be so abused as to exile my daughter from the head of the table, and how long it is your pleasure that this state of things shall continue?”
This explosion was just as shocking as though something like it had not been expected.
Mark Sutherland, with a crimsoned brow, arose from his chair.
Lincoln, with perfect self-possession, deliberately arose, walked into the hall, took down his hat, returned, and, standing before Clement Sutherland, deliberately said—“Mr. Sutherland, permit me to make a due acknowledgment of the hospitality you have extended me, and also to express my regret that it has been so unpardonably trespassed against. I shall be most happy if you will afford me the opportunity to reciprocate the hospitality, and atone for the trespass. Good day, sir.
“Oh! young man, you have nothing to thank me for.” Bowing to the ladies present, Lincoln withdrew. Mark Sutherland snatched his hat, and, without a word of leave-taking, left the room.
All the other members of the family circle remained seated at the table, with the exception of Miss Vivian, who, rising, excused herself, and retired.
When Mark Sutherland reached the rose terrace, he called to Lincoln to stop, and wait until their horses were saddled. And then he hastened off to the stables to give his orders.
In a very short time the horses were brought up, and the young men mounted, and gallopped away from the house. They rode on in silence for some time—Lincoln buried in calm thought, and Mark enrapt in a sort of fierce reverie. At length he backed his horse close up to Lincoln’s steed, seized his hand, and exclaimed, “Lauderdale, how can I ever atone for exposing you to such insult?”
“Insult? My dear fellow”—(he was just about to say, “Mr. Clement Sutherland cannot insult me;” but, delicate and generous in his consideration for the feelings of Mark, he only said)—“look into my face, and see if you think I am very much troubled.”