Ormond had seen enough.
“Very well, sir,” said he—“Mr. Ormond’s compliments—he called, that’s all.”
Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, he urged his horse still faster.
In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more—that he would tear her from his heart—that he would show her that he was no whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a coquette.
“A coquette!—is it possible, Florence Annaly?—You—and after all!”
Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them—he would not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the dread of future restraint.
So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer.
“Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy?—what has happened?” cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of Ormond’s mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures—still more strongly in his words.
When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language of the passions: he listened with eager interest—he sympathized so fully with Ormond’s feelings—expressed such astonishment, such indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as heartily as in the days of his childhood.
Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of accomplishing his purpose—now was the critical instant.