Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Letter Dexterously Delivered.
Pepita it was, though in a different style of dress to what he had been accustomed to see her in; as at New Orleans she had not kept to her national costume. Besides, there was a soupçon of shabbiness about her present attire, and then the shoeless feet!
“Dismissed the Valverde service—out of a situation—poor girl!”
He would not have so pityingly reflected, had he seen her as she was but a short half-hour before, in a pretty muslin dress, snow-white stockings, and blue satin slippers. Since then she had made a change in her toilet under direction and by help of the Condesa, who had attired her in a way more befitting the task intended.
Kearney, in full belief of her being a discharged servant, remembering her many little kindnesses to himself in the Casa de Calvo, was about to call her up, and speak a word of sympathy for old time’s sake. Dominguez was still absent, and the nearest sentry engaged in a chaffing encounter with some one in the crowd.
Just then he observed a slight tremor of her head, and with a sudden movement of the hand which seemed to say, “No, don’t speak to me.” She, too, could talk that mute language, so well understood in her country.
So restrained, he kept silent; to see her now glance furtively around, as if to make sure no one else was observing her. She had again closed the scarf over her face, but in the hand that held it under her chin something white—a piece of paper he supposed—appeared; just for one instant, then drawn under. Another significant look accompanied this gesture, saying plain as word could speak it:—
“You see what I’ve got for you; leave the action all to me.”
He did, for he could not do otherwise; he was fixed to this spot, she foot free. And the use she now made of this freedom was to walk straight out into the street, though not as coming to him; instead, her steps, as her eyes were directed towards Cris Rock and the hunchback, who were at work some paces further on. She seemed bent on making a closer inspection of the odd pair, nor would any one suppose she had other object in crossing over to them. No one did, save Kearney himself. Rivas had been again ordered into the sewer, and was at work in it. Besides, he did not know Pepita, though he was the one she most wished to be near. Chiefly for him was the communication she had to make.
It could not be, however, without a demonstration likely to be observed, therefore dangerous. But her wit was equal to the occasion, proving how well the ladies had chosen their letter-carrier.
“Ay Dios!” she exclaimed aloud, brushing past the young Irishman, and stopping with her eyes bent wonderingly on the strangely contrasted couple; then aside in sotto voce to Kearney, whom she had managed to place close behind her, apparently unconscious of his being there—“A billetita, Don Florencio—not for you—for the Señor Rivas—you can give it him—I daren’t. Try to take it out of my hand without being seen.” Then once more aloud. “Gigante y enano!” just as others had said, “Rue cosa estranja!” (what a strange thing).
She need not say any more, nor stay there any longer. For while she was speaking the crumpled sheet had passed through the fringe of the scarf, out of her fingers into those of Don Florencio, who had bent him to his work bringing his hand to the right place for the transfer.
Her errand, thus vicariously accomplished with another wondering look at the giant and dwarf, and another “Ay, Dios!” she turned to go back to the side walk. But before passing Kearney she managed to say something more to him.
“Carriage will come along soon—two ladies in it—one you know—one dear to you as you to her.”
Sweet words to him, though muttered, and he thanked her who spoke them—in his heart. He dared not speak his thanks, even in whisper; she was already too far off, tripping back to the flagged foot-walk, along which she turned, soon to disappear from his sight.
What she had said about the coming of a carriage was to Kearney not altogether intelligible. But, no doubt, the note, now concealed inside his shirt bosom would clear that up; and the next step was to hand it over to him for whom it was intended.
Luckily, Rivas had not been unobservant of what was going on between the girl and his companion. Her look seeming strange to him, had attracted his attention, and though keeping steadily at work, his eyes were not on it, but on them, which resulted in his witnessing the latter part of the little episode, and having more than a suspicion it also concerned himself. He was not taken by surprise, therefore, when Kearney, drawing closer to the edge of the drain, spoke down to him in a half-whisper—
“I’ve got something for you. Bring the point of your tool against mine, and look out when you feel my fingers.”
“Muy bien! I understand,” was the muttered response.
In a second or two after the shafts of their implements came into collision accidentally, it appeared. He would indeed have been sharp-witted who could have supposed it intentional, and lynx-eyed to have seen that scrap of twisted paper passed from one to the other—the second transfer dexterously done as the first. All any one could have told was, that the two scavengers seemed sorry for what had occurred, made mutual apologies, then separated to the full length of their coupling-chain, and went to work again, looking meek and innocent as lambs.
It was now Rivas’ turn to prove himself possessed of quick wit. He had reason to think the letter required immediate reading; and how was this to be done? To be seen at it would surely bring the sentries upon him, even though Dominguez was not there. And for them to get possession of it—that was a calamity perhaps worst of all! Possibly to compromise the writer; and well knew he who that was.
For a time he was perplexed, looking in all directions, and thinking of every way possible for him to read the letter unobserved. But none did seem possible. He could stoop down, so as to be unseen by those passing along the sidewalk; but close to the sewer’s edge were two or three of the sentries, who would still command view of him.
All at once a look of satisfaction came over his countenance, as his eyes rested on a side drain, which entered the main one, like many others, from adjacent dwellings. He had just scraped the mud out of its mouth, and was close to it.
The very thing, was his thought—the very place for his purpose. And shortly after he might have been seen standing before it, in bent attitude, his arms busy with his shovel, but his eyes and thoughts busier with a sheet of paper which lay at the bottom of the branch drain, some two or three feet inside it. It was the billetita, and though the creases were but hastily pressed out, he contrived to make himself master of its contents. They were but brief and legibly written—the script familiar to him.
“Querido,—Soon after receiving this—say, half an hour—look for a carriage—landau shut up—two ladies inside—pair of large horses—frisones—grey. When opposite, be ready—with him who shares your chain. Leave manners in the mud—make a rush, storm the carriage, eject the occupants rudely—violently—and take their places. You can trust the cochero. Some danger in the attempt, I know; but more if not made. Your old enemy implacable—determined to have your life. Do this, dearest, and save it—for your country’s sake, as also that of Ysabel.”