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The Mill House stood in a lonely part of the country, remote from the more thickly populated centres of Brentwood and Romford, on the edge of a wide tract of inhospitable marshland, known as Morstead Fen, intersected by those wide deep ditches which in this part of the world are known as dykes.
But Maister Roland, his mind's fu' of his books. He's aye civil and kind, and a fine lad; but no that sort. And ye see it's for a' our interest, Cornel, that you should stay at Brentwood. I took it upon me mysel to pass the word, 'No a syllable to Maister Roland, nor to the young leddies no a syllable. The women-servants, that have little reason to be out at night, ken little or nothing about it.
Many a leader met his death right against the very breastworks. Another would instantly spring forward, only to fall in his turn. Thirteen times the gaunt gray lines rushed madly through the battle smoke and lost their front ranks against the withering fire before the autumn night closed in. Schofield then fell back on Brentwood, halfway on the twenty miles to Nashville.
"That, of course; I should think less of you if you were not. And you shall have as fair a show as you are giving me which is saying a lot. Shall we go and smoke?" It was still early in the evening when Kent mounted the steps of the Brentwood apartment house. Mother and daughters were all on the porch, but it was Mrs. Brentwood who welcomed him.
The estate of Brentwood had lapsed into the hands of a distant branch of the family, who had lived but little there; and of the many people who had taken it, as I had done, few had remained through two Decembers. And nobody had taken the trouble to make a very close examination into the facts. "No, no," Jarvis said, shaking his head, "No, no, Cornel.
"For several reasons: one is that Elinor will never marry without my consent; another is that she can't afford to marry a poor man." Kent rose. "I am glad to know how you feel about it, Mrs. Brentwood: nevertheless, I shall ask you to give your consent some day, God willing."
He is like a son to my old friend at Brentwood; Lady Angleby is happy in having a nephew who bids fair to attain distinction, since her own sons prefer obscurity. She deplores their want of ambition: it must be indeed a trial to a mother of her aspiring temper."
"Brentwood," said the Major, "has calculated by his mathematics that the progress of the species is forty-seven, decimal eight, more rapid than it was thirty-five years ago." "So I should be prepared to believe," I said; "where will it all end? Will it be a grand universal republic, think you, in which war is unknown, and universal prosperity has banished crime?
The reader will probably ask: "Now, who on earth is Major Buckley? and who is Captain Brentwood? and last not least, who the Dickens are you?" If you will have patience, my dear sir, you will find it all out in a very short time Read on.
But it became time to go on board, and Captain Blockstrop, coming by where Alice sat, said, laughing, "I hope you are not giving my officer too much marmalade, Miss Brentwood? He is over-young to be trusted with a jam-pot, eh, Tacks?" "Too young to go to sea, I should say," said Alice. "Not too young to be a brave-hearted boy, however!" said the Captain.
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