The Story of Kennett | Page 3

seat, and the age
of the house denoted that one of the earliest settlers had been quick to
perceive its advantages. A hundred years had already elapsed since the
masons had run up those walls of rusty hornblende rock, and it was
even said that the leaden window-sashes, with their diamond-shaped
panes of greenish glass, had been brought over from England, in the
days of William Penn. In fact, the ancient aspect of the place--the tall,
massive chimney at the gable, the heavy, projecting eaves, and the
holly-bush in a warm nook beside the front porch, had, nineteen years
before, so forcibly reminded one of Howe's soldiers of his father's
homestead in mid-England, that he was numbered among the missing
after the Brandywine battle, and presently turned up as a hired hand on
the Barton farm, where he still lived, year in and year out.
An open, grassy space, a hundred yards in breadth, intervened between
the house and the barn, which was built against the slope of the knoll,
so that the bridge to the threshing-floor was nearly level, and the
stables below were sheltered from the north winds, and open to the
winter sun. On the other side of the lane leading from the high-road
stood a wagon-house and corn-crib--the latter empty, yet evidently, in
spite of its emptiness, the principal source of attraction to the visitors.
A score of men and boys peeped between the upright laths, and a dozen
dogs howled and sprang around the smooth corner-posts upon which
the structure rested. At the door stood old Giles, the military straggler
already mentioned--now a grizzly, weather-beaten man of fifty--with a
jolly grin on his face, and a short leather whip in his hand.
"Want to see him, Miss Betsy?" he asked, touching his mink-skin cap,
as Miss Lavender crawled through the nearest panel of the lofty picket
fence.
"See him?" she repeated. "Don't care if I do, afore goin' into th' house."

"Come up, then; out o' the way, Cato! Fan, take that, you slut! Don't be
afeard, Miss Betsy; if folks kept 'em in the leash, as had ought to be
done, I'd have less trouble. They're mortal eager, and no wonder.
There!--a'n't he a sly-lookin' divel? If I'd a hoss, Miss Betsy, I'd foller
with the best of 'em, and maybe you wouldn't have the brush?"
"Have the brush. Go along, Giles! He's an old one, and knows how to
take care of it. Do keep off the dreadful dogs, and let me git down!"
cried Miss Lavender, gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs,
and surveying the struggling animals before her with some dismay.
Giles's whip only reached the nearest, and the excited pack rushed
forward again after every repulse; but at this juncture a tall,
smartly-dressed man came across the lane, kicked the hounds out of the
way, and extended a helping hand to the lady.
"Ho, Mr. Alfred!" said she; "Much obliged. Miss Ann's havin' her
hands full, I reckon?"
Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the yard and along the
front of the house, to the kitchen entrance, at the eastern end. There we
will leave her, and return to the group of gentlemen.
Any one could see at a glance that Mr. Alfred Barton was the most
important person present. His character of host gave him, of course, the
right to control the order of the coming chase; but his size and
swaggering air of strength, his new style of hat, the gloss of his blue
coat, the cut of his buckskin breeches, and above all, the splendor of his
tasselled top-boots, distinguished him from his more homely apparelled
guests. His features were large and heavy: the full, wide lips betrayed a
fondness for indulgence, and the small, uneasy eyes a capacity for
concealing this and any other quality which needed concealment. They
were hard and cold, generally more than half hidden under thick lids,
and avoided, rather than sought, the glance of the man to whom he
spoke. His hair, a mixture of red-brown and gray, descended, without a
break, into bushy whiskers of the same color, and was cut shorter at the
back of the head than was then customary. Something coarse and
vulgar in his nature exhaled, like a powerful odor, through the assumed

shell of a gentleman, which he tried to wear, and rendered the
assumption useless.
A few guests, who had come from a distance, had just finished their
dinner in the farm-house. Owing to causes which will hereafter be
explained, they exhibited less than the usual plethoric satisfaction after
the hospitality of the country, and were the first to welcome the
appearance of a square black bottle, which went the rounds, with the
observation: "Whet up for a start!"
Mr. Barton drew a