[Literature] Charles Dickens: The Village Coquettes - There Are Dark Shadows on the #2/21

(Exit Villager.) That’s right, my lads, stow these sheaves away, before the sun goes down. Let’s begin fresh in the morning, without any leavings of to-day. By this time to-morrow the last load will have been carried, and then for our Harvest-Home!

VILLAGERS. Hurrah! Hurrah!

(First four lines of Round repeated.)

Enter MARTIN STOKES.

MARTIN. Very good! very good, indeed!—always sing while you work—capital custom! I always do when I work, and I never work at all when I can help it;—another capital custom. John, old fellow, how are you?—give us your hand,—hearty squeeze,—good shake,—capital custom number three. Fine dry weather for the harvest, John. Talking of that, I’m dry too: you always give away plenty of beer, here;—capital custom number four. Trouble you for the loan of that can, John.

JOHN (taking it from the cart). Here’s the can, but as to there being anything good in it it’s as dry as the weather, and as empty as you. Hoo! hoo! (laughing boisterously, is suddenly checked by a look from MARTIN).

MARTIN. Hallo, John, hallo! I have often told you before, Mr. Maddox, that I don’t consider you in a situation of life which entitles you to make jokes, far less to laugh at ’em. If you must make a joke, do it solemnly, and respectfully. If I laugh, that’s quite enough, and it must be far more gratifying to your feelings than any contortions of that enormous mouth of yours.

JOHN. Well, perhaps, as you say, I ought n’t to make jokes till I arrive, like you, at the dignity of a small piece of ground and a cottage; but I must laugh at a joke, sometimes.

MARTIN. Must, must you!—Rather presuming fellow, this Maddox. (Aside.)

JOHN. Why, when you make one of them rum jokes of yours,—’cod, I must laugh then!

MARTIN. Oh! ah! you may laugh then, John; always laugh at my jokes,—capital custom number five; no harm in that, because you can’t help it, you know.—Knowing fellow, though. (Aside.)

JOHN. Remember that joke about the old cow, as you made five years ago?—’cod, that was a joke! Hoo! hoo! hoo!—I never shall forget that joke. I never see a cow, to this day, without laughing.

MARTIN. Ha! ha! ha! very good, very good!—Devilish clever fellow this! (Aside.) Well, Jack, you behave yourself well, all the evening, and perhaps I may make that joke again before the day’s out.

JOHN. Thank ’ee, that’s very kind.

MARTIN. Don’t mention it, don’t mention it; but I say, John, I called to speak to you about more important matters.—Something wrong here, an’t there? (Mysteriously.)

JOHN. Wrong! you’re always fancying something wrong.

MARTIN. Fancying,—come, I like that. I say, why don’t you keep your harvest-home at home, to-morrow night? Why are we all to go up to the Squire’s, as if we couldn’t be merry in Benson’s barn? And why is the Squire always coming down here, looking after some people, and cutting out other people?—an’t that wrong? Where’s George Edmunds—old Benson’s so fond of, and that Lucy was fond of too, once upon a time,—eh? An’t that wrong? Where’s your sweetheart, Rose?—An’t her walkings, and gigglings, and whisperings, and simperings, with the Squire’s friend, Mr. Sparkins Flam, the talk of the whole place? Nothing wrong there,—eh? (MADDOX goes up.) Had him there; I knew there was something wrong. I’ll keep a sharp eye upon these doings, for I don’t like these new-fangled customs. It was all very well in the old time, to see the Squire’s father come riding among the people on his bay cob, nodding to the common folks, shaking hands with me, and all that sort of thing; but when you change the old country-gentleman into a dashing fop from London, and the steady old steward into Mr. Sparkins Flam, the case is very different. We shall see,—but if I might tell Miss Lucy Benson a bit of my mind, I should say, ‘Stick to an independent young fellow, like George Edmunds, and depend upon it you will be happier than you would with all the show and glitter of a squire’s lady.’ And I should say to Rose, very solemn, ‘Rose—’

ROSE enters unperceived, with beer.

‘Rose—’

ROSE (starting). Lord bless us! What a hollow voice!—Why, it’s Mr. Stokes!—What on earth is the matter with him?

MARTIN (not seeing her). Rose,—if you would be happy and contented, if you would escape destruction, shield yourself from dangerous peril, and save yourself from horrid ruin!—

ROSE. What dreadful words!—

MARTIN.