She's All the World to Me. Sir Hall Caine
that voice also, and knew as well that to utter a word or sound at that moment might be as much as his life was worth. The men were raising the stone.
"Here, bear a hand," said one.
"Never," said the first speaker.
There was a low, grating laugh. One of the men leaped into the vault.
"Now, then, tail on here more hands. Let's have it, quick."
Then Danny saw that, lying on the ground, was something that he had not observed before. It was like a thick black roll some four feet long. Two of the men got hold of it to hand it to the man below.
"Come! lay down, d'ye hear?"
Danny's terror mastered him. He turned to run. Then the man who had spoken first cried, "What's that?"
There was a moment's pause.
"What's what?" said the man in the vault.
"I'll swear on my soul I saw a woman pass the porch."
A bitter little laugh followed.
"Och, it's always a woman he's seeing."
Danny had found his legs at last. Flying along the grass as softly as a lapwing, he reached the old gate. Then he turned and listened. No; there was nothing to show that he had been heard. He crept down the steps to the water's edge. There in a creek he saw a boat which he had not observed on going up. He looked at the name.
It was "Ben-my-Chree."
Danny turned to the ford. The tide had risen a foot since he crossed, but he paddled through the water and gained the pier. Then he ran home as fast as his long legs would carry him, wet with sweat and speechless with dismay.
Next morning Danny remembered that he had forgotten all about the harbor-master and the light.
"Och, the cursed young imp that he is," cried his uncle, Bill Kisseck, hitching his hand into Danny's guernsey at the neck, and steadying him as if he had been a sack with an open mouth. "Aw, the booby; just taking a rovin' commission and snappin' his finger at the ould masther. What d'ye think would a happent to you, ye beach-comber, if some ship had run ashore and been wrecked and scuttled and all hands lost, and not a pound of cargo left at her, and never a light on the pier, and all along of you, ye idiot waistrel!"
CHAPTER III
"MACK'REL—MACKER-EL—MACK-ER-EL!"
It was a brilliant morning. The sea lay like a glass floor, and the sunshine, like a million fairies, danced on it. The town looked as bright as it was possible for Peel to look. The smoke was only beginning to coil upward from the chimney stacks and the streets were yet quiet when the silvery voice of a child was heard to cry—
"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."
It was a little auburn-haired lassie of five, with ruddy cheeks, and laughing lips, and sparkling brown eyes. She wore a clean white apron that covered her skirt, which was tucked up and pinned in fish-wife fashion in front. Her head was bare; she carried a basket over one arm, and a straw hat that swung on the other hand.
The basket contained flowers which the child was selling: "A ha'penny a bunch, ma'am, only a ha'penny!" The little thing was as bright as the sunlight that glistened over her head. She had made a song of her sweet call, and chanted the simple words with a rhythmic swing—
"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."
"Ruby," cried a gentleman at the door of a house facing the sea. "Here, little one, give me a bunch of your falderolls. What? No! not falderolls? Is that it, little one, eh?"
It was Mr. Kerruish Kinvig.
The child pouted prettily and drew back her basket.
"What! not sell to me this morning! Oh, I see you choose your customers, you do, my lady. But I'll have the law on you, I will."
Ruby looked up fearlessly into the face of the dread iconoclast.
"I don't love you," she said.
"No—eh? And why not, now?"
"Because you call the flowers bad names."
"Oh, I do, do I? Well never mind, little one. Say we strike a peace—eh?"
"I don't like people that strike," said Ruby, with averted eyes.
"Well, then, cry a truce—anything you like."
Ruby knew what crying a flower or a fish meant.
"Here, now, little one, here's a penny; that's double wages, you know. Don't you think the law would uphold me if I asked for a—"
"A what?" asked the child, with innocent eyes.
"Well, say a kiss."
The bargain was concluded and the purchase ratified. In another minute the little feet were tripping away, and from a side street came the silvery voice that sang—
"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."
At the next corner the lassie's childlike tones were suddenly drowned by a lustier voice which cried, "Mack'rel! Macker—el! Fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—and bellies as big as bishops'—Mack—er—el!"
It was Danny Fayle with a board on his head containing his last instalment of the season's mackerel. When the two street-venders came together they stopped.
"Aw now, the fresh you're looking this morning, Ruby veg—as fresh as a dewdrop, my chree!"
The little one lifted her eyes and laughed. Then she plunged her hand into her basket and brought out a bunch of wild roses.
"That's for you, Danny," she said.
"Och, for me is it now? Aw, and is it for me it is?" said Danny, with wondering eyes. "The clean ruined it would be in half a minute, though, at the likes of me, Ruby veg. Keep it for yourself, woman." Louder: "Mack'rel—fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—Macker-el!" Then lower: "Aw now, the sweet and tidy they'd be lookin' in your own breast, my chree—the sweet extraordinary!"
The child looked up and smiled, looked down and pondered: then half reluctantly, half coquettishly, fixed the flowers in her bosom.
"Danny, I love you," she said, simply.
The object of Ruby's affection blushed violently and was silent.
"And so does Sissy," added the little one.
"Mona?" asked Danny, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth.
"Yes, and mama too."
Danny's face, which had begun to brighten, suddenly lost its sunshine. His lower lip was lagging wofully.
"Yes, Mona and mama, and—and everybody," said the child, with ungrudging spontaneity.
"No, Ruby ven."
Danny's voice was breaking. He tried to conquer this weakness by shouting aloud, "Mack-er—Mack—" Then, in a softer tone, "Not everybody, my chree."
"Well," said the child in earnest defense, "everybody except your uncle Kisseck."
"Bill? Bill? What about Bill?" said Danny, hoarsely.
"Why don't you fight into him, Danny? You're a big boy now, Danny. Why don't you fight into him?"
Danny's simple face grew very grave. The soft blue eyes had an uncertain look.
"Did Sissy say that, Ruby veg?"
"No, but she said Bill Kisseck was a—was a—"
"A what, Rue?"
"A