“I will tell you, what I mean. You have a youthful face, that looks as if it did not know vice yet, for its own hand. If I tell you there is a deadly plague in that house, will you believe me, and flee from it?”
The youth looked at her in amazement.
“I tell you, young man, there is a mortal malady in that house of Strathoran; a sickness that will kill more than your life; that will strip you of good fame and honor, or ever you have entered the world; and make you a bankrupt, ruined, disgraced man, when you should be but a fresh, youthful, ingenuous man. Mind what I am saying; there are serpents yonder, deadlier than the snakes of India. Do not sleep under that roof another night. Go home to your father, and tell him henceforward to keep an eye on your wanderings himself, and no trust you, a precious laddie, as ye no doubt are to him, to the warning of a stranger.”
The young man laughed; he did not know how to understand this, though the kindness of the strange, stern old lady, moved as much as it astonished him.
“Oh! that’s because you’ve quarrelled with Gillravidge.”
“I quarrel with no vermin,” said Mrs. Catherine. “If I cannot cast the plague out of a land, I warn the healthful and innocent from its borders. Young man! I know not so much as your name; but six or seven years ago, a youth, very dear to me, was as you are, blythe, happy, full of promise, well endowed, and honored. The reptile brood you are among got their meshes over him—corrupted his young mind, broke his blythe spirit, devoured his substance, defrauded him of his land, and then left him—a sinful, broken man, to struggle with his bitter repentance and misery as he best could. Beware, young man—beware of your youth—beware of the gladness that must depart for evermore, if you once taste of that cup of vice. You have a terrible stake in it; for the sake of all that you have, or can gain in this world and the next, come out of that sinful house. I will give you the shelter of mine if ye desire it. I cannot see a young man like what ye are, or seem, lost to all honest uses, and not put forth my hand.”
Young Sympelton rose—he lingered—hesitated—there was dew under his eyelids; he was ashamed that any one could have moved him so—him, a man!
Fitzherbert thrust in his head at the door—laughed derisively.
“Ah, a young penitent—very interesting—old lady preaching at him.”
The youth dashed out and ran down the stair.