The abode that looked so cheerless, and which had so evidently hung long
on hand, was the property of Squire Hazeldean. It had been built by his
grandfather on the female side,--a country gentleman who had actually
been in Italy (a journey rare enough to boast of in those days), and who,
on his return home, had attempted a miniature imitation of an Italian
villa. He left an only daughter and sole heiress, who married Squire
Hazeldean's father; and since that time, the house, abandoned by its
proprietors for the larger residence of the Hazeldeans, had been
uninhabited and neglected. Several tenants, indeed, had offered
themselves; but your true country squire is slow in admitting upon his
own property a rival neighbour. Some wanted shooting. "That," said the
Hazeldeans, who were great sportsmen and strict preservers, "was quite
out of the question." Others were fine folks from London. "London
servants," said the Hazeldeans, who were moral and prudent people, "would
corrupt their own, and bring London prices." Others, again, were retired
manufacturers, at whom the Hazeldeans turned up their agricultural noses.
In short, some were too grand, and others too vulgar. Some were refused
because they were known so well: "Friends were best at a distance," said
the Hazeldeans; others because they were not known at all: "No good
comes of strangers," said the Hazeldeans. And finally, as the house fell
more and more into decay, no one would take it unless it was put into
thorough repair: "As if one was made of money!" said the Hazeldeans. In
short, there stood the house unoccupied and ruinous; and there, on its
terrace, stood the two forlorn Italians, surveying it with a smile at
each other, as for the first time since they set foot in England, they
recognized, in dilapidated pilasters and broken statues, in a weed-grown
terrace and the remains of an orangery, something that reminded them of
the land they had left behind.