At this moment a man approached the driver, and desired him to let him know that a person wished to speak with him.
The female in the carriage no sooner heard the voice, even although the words were uttered in whispers, than she called out—
“Father, come to me—help me home—I'm dyin'! You've been desaved, Mr. Henderson,” she added. “It wasn't Mave Sullivan, but the Prophet's own daughter, you took away. Blessed be God, I've saved her that disgrace. Father, help me home. I won't be long a throuble to you now.”
“What's this!” exclaimed Henderson. “Are you not Miss Sullivan?”
“Am I in a dhrame?” said the Prophet, approaching the door of the chaise. “Surely—now—what is it? It's my daughter's voice! Is that Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night? Or, am I in a dhrame still, I say? Sarah, is it you? Spake.”
“It is me, father; help me home. It will be your last throuble with me, I think—at laste, I hope so—oh, I hope so!”
“Who talks about typhus fever?” asked Henderson, starting out of the chaise with alarm. “What means this? Explain yourself.”
“I can no more explain it,” replied the Prophet, “than you can. I left my daughter lyin' in bed of typhus faver, not more than three or four hours ago; an' if I'm to believe my ears, I find her in the carriage with you now!”
“I'm here,” she replied; “help me out.”
“Oh, I see it all now,” observed Henderson, in a fit of passion, aggravated by the bitterness of his disappointment—“I see your trick; an' so, you old scoundrel, you thought to impose your termagant daughter upon me instead of Miss Sullivan, and she reeking with typhus fever, too, by your own account. For this piece of villany I shall settle with you, however, never fear. Typhus fever! Good God!—and I so dreadfully afraid of it all along, that I couldn't bear to look near a house in which it was, nor approach any person even recovering out of it. Driver, you may leave the girl at home. As for me, I shall not enter your chaise again, contaminated, as it probably is, with that dreadful complaint, that is carrying off half the country. Call to the Grange in the morning, an' you shall be paid. Good-night, you prophetical old impostor. I shall mark you for this piece of villany; you may rest assured of that. A pretty trudge I shall have to the Grange, such a vile and tempestuous night; but you shall suffer for it, I say again.”