Chapter 1 - The Landlord and The Mansion

(Lebeau's POV)

1801:

I have just returned from a visit to my landlord who seems like a solitary man. This is certainly a beautiful country! I do not believe there is another place in all England that is so completely removed from the stir of society. Though a capital fellow, that Mr Hargreaves, his gaze seems to be fixed with unfaltering earnest to the desolate solitary of the landscape beyond, and care little for any social interactions. He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I introduced myself to him.

He was standing in front of a gate of a great mansion – presumably his mansion – when I rode to him. This marked our first encounter. I stopped in front of him, and noticed his black eyes withdraw guardedly under their brows, looking asunder as if deep in thoughts. We never made eye contact, and his fingers sheltered themselves, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

'Mr Hargreaves?' I said. A nod was the answer.

'My name is Mr Labeau, your new neighbor, sir. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by my arrival in occupying the Arlington House, east yonder; I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts –'

'Arlington House is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing. 'I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could hinder its presence – no doubt!'

The reply was uttered with closed teeth.

'But nevertheless, you shall be my new tenant,' he added without flickering his gaze away from the deep thoughts he was initially engaged in.

Even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathizing movement to the words; hence, I thought it would be futile to pursue an acquainted gesture from him further. I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself. The horse I was riding on suddenly gave a start and pushed at the gate, causing a creak to resonate throughout the unmoving barrier. This startled Mr Hargreaves from his meditation, and he gave an annoyed grunt as he pulled out his hand to unchain the locks, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court, -

'Javier, take Mr Lebeau's horse; and bring up some wine.'

We passed the lawn as we ascended up the causeway which lead to the front door of the mansion. The grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters. A crooked silhouette appeared coincidentally from somewhere I did not chance to discern as soon as the orders were announced. The shadow belonged to man who appears to be Javier. He was an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy.

'The Lord help us!' he complained in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse.

Wargraves Mansion is the name of Mr Hargreaves' dwelling. Its station is exposed to the north wind blowing over the edge. The house was surrounded by stunted firs and uncarved bushy plantations that seem to be guarding some sort of secret behind the walls of the mysterious mansion. The gust of wind howled against the range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving the alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresighted to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones. Before passing the threshold, 1 paused to admire a quantity of formidable gothic statues lavished over the front and especially about the main door above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date '1 500', and the name "Edward Collins". I had the urge to make a few comments and to request the host for a short history of the place, but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance or complete departure, so I had no desire to test his impatience and restrained from my temptations.

One step brought us into the family sitting-room. Without any introductory lobby or passage, I saw that it included kitchen and parlor, generally, but I believe at Wargrives Mansion the occupants use another kitchen in another quarter. I felt my unwarranted presence shunned from the desolate environment, but eventually I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within, and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fire-place; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. My gaze travelled along the vast Egyptian carpet that dominated a generous acre of the fireplace. Above the fireplace were villainous old guns, and couple of horse-pistols. The rest of the floor was of smooth, white stone.

The apartment and furniture is apparently inherited down to Mr Hargreaves, whose past I had yet to inquire successfully, if allowed. Mr Hargreaves gestured me to occupy a sofa in front of the fireplace, while he sinks down into an arm chair beside me. He has a mysterious contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gypsy in aspect, but dresses and acts like a gentleman. He has an erect and handsome figure, and rather serious. His reserve avoids showy displays of feeling – however, there is some softness to his demeanour. Mr Hargreaves may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, such as me.

After seating ourselves comfortably by the hearth, my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress a canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs. Her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a treat. I reached out to do the same, but my caress provoked a long, menacing gnarl.

'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr Hargreaves in unison, and demonstrated a punch of his foot to discipline the threatened canine. 'She's not accustomed to be spoiled – nor kept for a pet.'

Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, 'Javier!'

Javier mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no sign of ascending; so, his master excused himself to visit the cellar instead, leaving me behind with the ruffianly dog.

During my wait for the host's return, a pair of grim shaggy sheepdogs tripped along towards me from one end of the room. They rested beside the mother sheepdog, and I, anxious to come in contact with their fangs, sat still. But, imagining they would scarcely understand insults, I winked and making faces at the dogs. However, it irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into her fours and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose table between us. This proceeding roused the whole clutter. Half dozen four-footed friends, of various sizes and ages, sprung at me. I felt my heels and coat brims vulnerable to the subjects of assault, and I grabbed a poker stick in an instinct from beside the armchair to spar off the larger combatants as effectually as I could. In my helpless position, I resorted to demand, aloud assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace.

Mr Hargreaves and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm. As if mocking my distress, the men moved as casually as ever, although the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Luckily, someone else from the kitchen rushed even quicker towards the source of dispute: a worn maid, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us while waving a frying-pan – she used that weapon, and spit out threatening words, that the storm subsided magically. She remained heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.

'What the devil is the matter?' Mr Hargreaves asked, eyeing me in a manner I could not endure after this inhospitable treatment.

'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered. 'The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!'

Mr Hargreaves did not seem to buy into my complaints. 'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing, he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. 'The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?'

'No thank you.' I replied half earnestly.

'Not bitten, are you?'

'If I had been, I would have set a token on the biter.'

Hargreaves' countenance relaxed into a grin.

'Come, come,' he said, 'you are flurried, Mr Lebeau. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so rare in this house that I and my dogs hardly know how to receive them,' he owned with a slight remorse.

I felt a tinge of embarrassment and regret, despite the former feeling of annoyance, from having to drag Mr Hargreaves into my own affairs, so I tried to avert the situation quickly by taking the wine Mr Hargreaves had poured freshly on the table, lifting a toast.

'To health, sir!'

He bowed and returned the pledge. However, the fellow seemed to take the turn and felt amused at the previous affair with the dogs, and I felt loath to allow further amusement at my expense. Nevertheless, we continued to chat in a discourse of topics would be a subject of interest to me. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched.

Before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit tomorrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. Stubbornly, I thought that I shall go, nevertheless. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him.