majestic.
“Write this yourself?” he asked, chuckling.
“Rather,” said Stephen, lowering his head and kissing Aeneas between the ears.
“But who’s old Em’ly?” Rickie winced and frowned.
“Now you’re asking.
“Old Em’ly she limps,
And as—”
“I am so tired,” said Rickie. Why should he stand it any longer?
He would go home to the woman he loved. “Do you mind if I give up Salisbury?”
“But we’ve seen nothing!” cried Stephen.
“I shouldn’t enjoy anything, I am so absurdly tired.”
“Left turn, then—all in the day’s work.” He bit at his moustache angrily.
“Good gracious me, man!—of course I’m going back alone. I’m not going to spoil your day. How could you think it of me?”
Stephen gave a loud sigh of relief. “If you do want to go home, here’s your whip. Don’t fall off. Say to her you wanted it, or there might be ructions.”
“Certainly. Thank you for your kind care of me.”
“’Old Em’ly she limps,
And as—’”
Soon he was out of earshot. Soon they were lost to view. Soon they were out of his thoughts. He forgot the coarseness and the drinking and the ingratitude. A few months ago he would not have forgotten so quickly, and he might also have detected something else. But a lover is dogmatic. To him the world shall be
beautiful and pure. When it is not, he ignores it.
“He’s not tired,” said Stephen to the soldier; “he wants his girl.” And they winked at each other, and cracked jokes over the eternal comedy of love. They asked each other if they’d let a girl spoil a morning’s ride. They both exhibited a profound cynicism. Stephen, who was quite without ballast, described the household at Cadover: he should say that Rickie would find Miss Pembroke kissing the footman.
“I say the footman’s kissing old Em’ly.”
“Jolly day,” said Stephen. His voice was suddenly constrained. He was not sure whether he liked the soldier after all, nor whether he had been wise in showing him his compositions.
“’Old Em’ly she limps,
And as—’”
“All right, Thomas. That’ll do.”
“Old Em’ly—’”
“I wish you’d dry up, like a good fellow. This is the lady’s horse, you know, hang it, after all.”
“In-deed!”
“Don’t you see—when a fellow’s on a horse, he can’t let another fellow—kind of—don’t you know?”
The man did know. “There’s sense in that.” he said approvingly. Peace was restored, and they would have reached Salisbury if they had not had some more beer. It unloosed the soldier’s fancies, and again he spoke of old Em’ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic variations.
“Jolly day,” repeated Stephen, with a straightening of the eyebrows and a quick glance at the other’s body. He then warned him against the variations. In consequence he was accused of being a member of the Y.M.C.A. His blood boiled at this. He refuted the charge, and became great friends with the soldier, for the third time.
“Any objection to ’Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton’?”
“Rather not.”
The soldier sang “Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackkleton.” It is really a work for two voices, most of the sauciness disappearing when taken as a solo. Nor is Mrs. Tackleton’s name Em’lv.
“I call it a jolly rotten song,” said Stephen crossly. “I won’t stand being got at.”
“P’r’aps y’like therold song. Lishen.
“’Of all the gulls that arsshmart,
There’s none line pretty—Em’ly;
For she’s the darling of merart’”
“Now, that’s wrong.” He rode up close to the singer.
“Shright.”
“’Tisn’t.”
“It’s as my mother taught me.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll not alter from mother’s way.”
Stephen was baffled. Then he said, “How does your mother make it rhyme?”
“Wot?”
“Squat. You’re an ass, and I’m not. Poems want rhymes. ‘Alley’ comes next line.”
He said “alley” was—welcome to come if it liked.
“It can’t. You want Sally. Sally—alley. Em’ly-alley doesn’t do.”
“Emily-femily!” cried the soldier, with an inspiration that was not his when sober. “My mother taught me femily.
“’For she’s the darling of merart,
And she lives in my femily.’”
“Well, you’d best be careful, Thomas, and your mother too.”
“Your mother’s no better than she should be,” said Thomas vaguely.
“Do you think I haven’t heard that before?” retorted the boy. The other concluded he might now say anything. So he might—the name of old Emily excepted. Stephen cared little about his benefactress’s honour, but a great deal about his own. He had made Mrs. Failing into a test. For the moment he would die for her, as a knight would die for a glove. He is not to be distinguished from a hero.
Old Sarum was passed. They approached the most beautiful spire in the world. “Lord! another of these large churches!” said the soldier. Unfriendly to Gothic, he lifted both hands to his nose, and declared that old Em’ly was buried there. He lay in the mud. His horse trotted back towards Amesbury, Stephen had twisted him out of the saddle.
“I’ve done him!” he yelled, though no one was there to hear. He rose up in his stirrups and shouted with joy. He flung his arms round Aeneas’s neck. The elderly horse understood, capered, and bolted. It was a centaur that dashed into Salisbury and scattered the people. In the stable he would not dismount. “I’ve done him!” he yelled to the ostlers—apathetic men. Stretching upwards, he clung to a beam. Aeneas moved on and he was left hanging. Greatly did
