"FLING THEM INTO THE ROAD."

TWO PICTURES OF THE COTTAGE PROBLEM.

FIRST PICTURE.

The Landlord and the Cottager—as he appears in the Daily News, Daily Chronicle, Manchester Guardian, Star, Nation, and other Radical newspapers, and in the speeches of Radical Cabinet Ministers, like that of Mr. Buncitruin 075 Friday week.1 SCENE : The great library at Baronswood. The Marquis of Broad- lands is sitting over a fire of logs piled half-way up the antique and capacious chimney. At his side a table with decanters and glasses. The heavy stone mantelpiece and the glass bear the arms of the Broadlands. Supporters : two men bearing ploughshares, chained, proper. On a field argent, a bloody yoke, gules. Motto (translated): "My father chastised you with whips."

A door is opened by a tall footman.

FOOTMAN:

The agent to see you, m' Lord.

THE MARQUIS :

Who the devil told you I'd see him ? Tell him to go to Hades. FOOTMAN (retreating) :

Very good, in' Lord. Colonel Brandon told me to say it was very urgent, Lord.

THE MARQUIS:

What the

COLONEL BRANDON, the Agent (without) : Lord Broadlands, I must speak to you. (Enters.) I'll really not keep you a moment, but it's an affair almost of life or death, and, I'm afraid, won't wait till you come back from Newmarket. (Corning nearer.) My Lord, for God's sake think over your decision about Weatherleaf's cottage. The man can't leave it just now. I find his wife's not in a state to move. She's been on the sick list ever since December, and now there's a baby coming— almost directly.

THE MARQUIS :

You're a fool, Brandon. You know as well as I do that the man spoke against game-preserving, not once, but twice, at the " Goat and Compasses," for everyone to hear him. He's no tenant of mine after that. Let him starve, damn him. His beggarly wife can die if she chooses; that's not my affair.

THE AGENT:

Let them at least keep the cottage till the baby's born, Lord Broadlands, even if you turn the man away from his estate job; we've plenty without poor Weatherleaf's cottage.

THE MARQUIS (with unpleasant emphasis): " Weatherleaf's cottage" ?

THE AGENT:

Oh, I know, my Lord ; but the man was born there, and some- how it got the name.

THE MARQUIS :

Weatherleaf shall leave, by heaven, and "No" is my last word. Good-night, Colonel Brandon. I think that's all I have to say to you. (He turns from Brandon and pours himself out a strong whisky and soda.)

THE AGENT:

One word snore.. . . You're killing that poor woman, my Lord; it's certain death to her. . . . Look here, Lord Broadlands, you know I'm not generally a man to make a fuss or to act the sentimental. Once or twice I've served you in such matters : Potterton's grievance about the right-of-way being stopped, prosecuting that young man Stevens for poaching (you know upon whose evidence), and fighting in court about the compensa- tion for Browning's ricks that your son, Lord Marchland, burnt down. I took my orders and did my work, and I even— heaven help me !—turned poor old Mrs. Stanway out of her cottage at your bidding because she was too sick and old to curtsey to you as you passed by on your horse ; but don't ask me to do this. THE MARQUIS (savagely): Perhaps you'll allow me to know my mind and to do as I will with my own, will you ? Out of that cottage neck and crop they go, and—let them be out by the time I am back from the races. (Re-enter the footman.) FOOTMAN (to Colonel Brandon) : There is a person below of the name of Weatherleaf, sir. He says that you need not trouble his Lordship further. His wife is dead. (Marquis starts and glares wild-eyed into the corners of the vast library, as if in the presence of an accusing spirit.)

SECOND PICTURE.

The Landlord and the Cottager—as he appears in the dull and prosaic reality.]

SCENE: The same. The Marquis of Broadlands sits at a bureau writing letters. It is about six o'clock in the evening, and he still wears his riding clothes. A copy of the Spectator lies beside him.

A footman opens the doer.

FOOTMAN:

Colonel Brandon to see you, my Lord.

THE MARQUIS :

Oh, didn't he get my note ?

ICI

FOOTMAN :

Couldn't say, my Lord. Shall I inquire ?

THE MARQUIS (wearily):

No; all right, show him in.

(A moment's pause. Enter the Agent, Colonel Brandon.)

THE AGENT:

I got your note.

THE MARQUIS (a little anxiously and with an assumed air of unconcern) :

Oh, that's all right—do sit down. I suppose it's all right then— about the Weatherleafs stopping on, I mean.

THE AGENT:

Well, that's for you to decide, of course, but—

THE MARQUIS: Well, you know, the fact is my wife and I were riding past there this afternoon, and Weatherleaf came out and made himself rather unpleasant, and said that he'd never meant that he wanted to leave the cottage; and then Mrs. Weatherleaf came and told my wife in confidence that—well, that in fact she wasn't in a state of health to move. After that, of course, I really couldn't turn the wretched man out against his will.

THE AGENT:

They don't seem to have worried about her health when they gave notice, did they ?

THE MARQUIS :

Oh, but the man thought then he'd got another job, I fancy from what he said. That's a very different thing for his wife than going off heaven knows where. Anyhow, 1 promised Mrs. Weatherleaf, so it's got to be. (Catching at the straw.) You know as well as I do, Weatherleaf's a sort of a Radical—it would look so bad to turn him out.

THE AGENT (rather annoyed):

Very well, I suppose that's all right, then. The man has just changed his mind. But it makes it very difficult for me to manage the property if I'm to have things done behind . . . The cottage is already re-let to Mrs. Smith—Isaac Smith's widow. We shall have a difficulty in explaining to her satisfaction that she can't have her cottage. Weatherleaf gave notice quite off his own bat, remember.

THE MARQUIS :

Why can't Mrs. Smith have another cottage ? I can't very well go back. I told them they could keep it. My wife was very keen about it too.

THE AGENT (smiling grimly): We haven't got another cottage, but perhaps Lady Broadlands would like to explain things to Mrs. Smith.

THE MARQUIS (desperately): Then look here, we must build her a cottage.

TIIE AGENT (with lifted eyebrows):

Three hundred pounds ?

THE MARQUIS : No, hang it all; let's see if we can't do it a bit cheaper this time. I think it could be done. (Picking up the Spectator.) This man says he can do it for £150, and if . . .

(But what Spectator reader needs to hear more ? After a little coquettish delay, during which he contrived unobtrusively to add £50 to the price of the cottage, the agent consented to build. Having thus found the universal remedy for all rustic ills, they, of course, all lived happily ever after.) A.