And Zuleime was as yet too deeply absorbed in the contemplation of her own recent bridehood, and the sorrow of her widowhood, to think of anything else.
Meanwhile old Mr. Clifton had ridden as for life up to Hardbargain, thrown himself from his horse, flung the bridle upon his neck and let him go loose, while he himself rushed up the stairs and into the hall, and without the ceremony of a rap, burst into the quiet presence of Mrs. Clifton as she sat sewing in her shady parlor. She arose calmly to receive him; and the very quietness of the lady threw the excited old gentleman off his guard, and out of his politeness, and into a rage.
“Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down with a thump into a chair, and tramping up and down the floor. “Here’s a pretty state of affairs!”
“Mr. Clifton, you are excited.”
“Yes, madam, I am excited!” interrupted the old man—“very much excited, madam! Very much excited, indeed, madam! Where is Archer Clifton? tell me that!”
“Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself!”
“Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of three hundred people pouring into my house to-night, each one of them agape to see a wedding, and to have to tell them there will be no wedding!”
“Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more than I do!”
“I don’t regret it at all, ma’am! I rejoice at it, ma’am! I congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his red face.
“Satisfaction for what you rejoice at, Mr. Clifton?” inquired the lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with herself.