A view of the “Little House,” though certainly very secondary in excitement compared with a visit to the gipsy horse-dealers, had certainly points of interest all its own, to Margot, anyhow.
“I say....” She stood perfectly still and stared. “It must be lonely for him.”
“Lonely! I should rather think so. In winter there’s snow all round. I suppose he shuts himself up there, and, of course, nobody ever goes to see him; so it doesn’t matter for them! All the windows look out over the sea, you know. He evidently likes being lonely because he’s mad, I suppose.”
But, to be lonely and mad seemed a piteous combination of horrors to Margot. She stood staring through grey eyes at the quiet, unhappy-looking little house, until Stella shivered at her side. “I say,—let’s go back. You’ve seen it now, and I wouldn’t dare go too near. I’d hate it, too, if he came out suddenly. He’s told some of the village children, before now, that he’ll throw them over the cliff, if he catches them staring.”
“I’m not staring—not in that way. I don’t believe he’d mind,” said Margot slowly.
But it was with a little shiver, too, that she herself turned away. There was something distinctly eerie and mysterious and—sad about the silent little dwelling-place perched up on the side of the cliff. “Doesn’t anyone go near him, then?” she inquired.
“Well, anyhow, the gipsies don’t. They think he’s uncanny. They say he bewitches their horses; and you’ll never find a horse grazing over here. Oh, I say,—why, Margot, look!”
They had been retracing their steps, but Stella suddenly stood still and pointed.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Margot, with interest.
“It’s one of the tents. Then the gipsies haven’t all gone. Look, there are two horses as well!”