"It's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," said William Waterstone, throwing himself down in an arm-chair that stood by his own kitchen fireside, and at the same time laying aside his staff and bonnet; for William had just returned from a journey of ten or twelve miles, on which he had set out that morning—"it's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," he said, in a voice and with a look and manner of the deepest despair. "He'll no listen to ony terms," he went on, "or to ony delay, but insists on haein the money doun on the nail, and to the last farthin, or he says he'll roup us to the door, and that within fourteen days."
But what misfortune was this that threatened William Waterstone? And who was he? Why, we will tell you, good reader, beginning with your last query first. William Waterstone was a small farmer in Teviotdale, and one of the most honest, laborious, and worthy men in that part of the country. But all his industry, prudence, economy, and integrity had not enabled him, as, indeed, they could not, to cope with the disadvantages of falling markets and a poor and over-rented farm; and he fell into arrears with his landlord. It was in vain that poor William, who was now getting up in years, being close upon sixty, toiled late and early, assisted by his wife and daughter (his whole household), to reduce or keep down the debt that was growing up against him. It was in vain that he and they denied themselves every comfort to attain this desirable end. The arrears, in place of diminishing, went on increasing; for the farm, with all this toil and privation, could scarcely pay the current expenses, let alone enabling its occupant to liquidate an extra debt.
But this state of matters with William, though sad enough, and such as must, in any circumstances, have made him unhappy, would not have ended in his utter ruin, as it now threatened to do, had the property which he rented remained in the hands of his old landlord; for that person knew his excellent character, respected his worth, and, perfectly aware that he was doing all that man could do to discharge the claims he had on him, showed him every lenity and indulgence; and would, in all probability (indeed he had actually said as much), have forgiven him his arrears altogether. Unfortunately for William, however, his generous landlord just about this time died; and the property fell into other and very different hands.
The first step of the new proprietor, or rather of his factor, though of course done with the former's consent, was to ferret out all outstanding debts; the next, to enforce their payment, without distinction of persons or consideration of circumstances, by the most summary measures which the law allowed. On this black list, and amongst the foremost, stood the name of William Waterstone.
It was on the day preceding that on which our story opens, that William first received intimation by a threatening letter, of the determination of the new proprietor regarding the arrears which he was owing; and on the next he went himself to the factor, who lived at the distance of about ten miles, to endeavour to avert the proceedings with which he was threatened, by entering into some arrangements regarding the debt. The result of this interview is announced in the expressions with which William seated himself in his arm-chair, as quoted at the outset of our tale; for he had just at that moment returned from his unsuccessful mission.
He had addressed himself to his wife; but what he said was equally meant for the ear of his daughter—a young, beautiful, and interesting girl of about nineteen, who was also present at the time.
On William's announcing the determination of the factor regarding them, his wife, without saying a word, but looking the very picture of grief and despair, flung herself into a chair opposite her husband, where she sat for some time in silence, wiping away at intervals, with the corner of her apron, the tears that forced themselves into her eyes.
After a short time, during which neither father, mother, nor daughter had spoken a syllable, each being wrapped up in the contemplation of the miserable prospects which lay before them, Mrs Waterstone at length said—
"And is there, then, nae hope for us now, William, after a' oor toil and oor fecht?"
"Nane—nane that I can see," replied the husband, after a lengthened pause, in a voice rendered stern by despair, and at the same time glancing towards his daughter, who, with her face buried in her apron, was sobbing and weeping in a distant corner of the apartment. "Nane that I can see," he again repeated. "There's nae help for us under heaven. Naething for us noo, Betsy, but the meal pock."