Old moormen said it was one of the worst winters they could remember, not on account of the cold, but because of the gales and persistent snow. The first fall soon melted, but not entirely; a big splash of white remained on Ger Tor until a second fall came; and when that melted the splash remained, asking for more, and in due time receiving it. People found it hard to get about; some parts of the moor were inaccessible; and the roads were deep in slush when they were not heaped with drifts. It was a bad winter for men and animals; and it made many of the old folk so disgusted with life that they took the opportunity offered them by severe colds to get rid of it altogether.
The villages above the Tavy appeared to be deserted during that dreary time. It was a wonder how people hid themselves, for the street was empty day after day, and a real human being crossing from one side to the other was a sight to bring faces to the windows. One face was often at a certain window, a frightened little white face, which had forgotten how to laugh even when some old woman slipped up in the slush, and its eyes would look first on one side, then on the other, generally without seeing anything except the bare moor, which was sometimes black, and sometimes white, and always dreary. Boodles was alone in Lewside Cottage, her only companions the mice which she hated, and the eternal winds which made her shiver and had plucked the roses from her cheeks until hardly a pink petal remained. Boodles was feeling as much alone without old Weevil as Brightly was feeling without Ju. Sometimes she thought she might soon have to go out and tramp a portion of the world like him, and claim her share of open air and space, which was all the inheritance to which she was entitled.
To lead a lonely life on Dartmoor is unwholesome at any age; and when one is eighteen and a girl it is a punishment altogether too severe. Boodles had got through the first days fairly well because she was stunned, but when she began to wake up and comprehend how she was placed the horror bred of loneliness and wild winds took hold upon her. The first evil symptom was restlessness. She wandered about the cottage, not doing anything, but feeling she must keep on the move to prevent herself from screaming. She began to talk to herself, softly during the day as if she was rather afraid some one might be listening, and towards evening loudly, partly to assure herself she was safe, partly to drown the tempestuous noises of the wind. Then she fell into the trick of shuddering, of casting quick glances behind, and sometimes she would run into a corner and hide her face, because there were queer shadows in the room, and strange sounds upon the stairs, and the doors shook so, and she seemed to hear a familiar shuffling and a tender voice murmuring: "Boodle-oodle," and she would cover up all the mirrors, dreadfully afraid of seeing a comic old face in them. Sometimes when the wind was roaring its loudest over the moor she would rush up to her bedroom, lock the door, and scream. These were foolish actions, but then she was only eighteen.
It was getting on towards Christmas, and at last there was another moonlit night, full of wind and motion; and soon after Boodles had gone to bed she heard other sounds which frightened her so much she could not scream. She crept out of bed, got to the window, and looked out. A man was trying the door, and when he found it secure he went to the windows. The moonlight fell upon Pendoggat's head and shoulders. Boodles did not know of a rumour suggesting that old Weevil had been a miser, and had saved up a lot of money which was hidden in the cottage, but Pendoggat had heard it. She got back to her bed and fainted with terror, but the man failed to get in. The next day she went to see Mary, and told her what had happened. Mary spat on her hands, which was one of her primitive ways when she felt a desire to chastise any one, and picked up her big stick, "I'll break every bone in his body," she shouted.
Boodles comprehended what a friend and champion she had in this creature, who had much of a woman's tenderness, and all of a man's strength. To some it might have appeared ridiculous to hear Mary's threats, but it was not so. She was fully as strong as Pendoggat, and there was no cowardice in her.
"Aw, my dear," she went on, "yew bain't the little maid what used to come up for eggs and butter. Yew would come up over wi' red cheeks and laughing cruel, and saying to I: 'One egg for luck, Mary,' and I'd give it ye, my dear. If you'd asked I for two or dree I'd ha' given 'em. You'm a white little maid, and as thin getting as thikky stick. Don't ye ha' the decline, my dear. Aw now, don't ye. What will the butiful young gentleman say when he sees you white and thin getting?"
"Don't, Mary," cried Boodles, almost passionately; for she dared not think of Aubrey as a lover. Their love-days had become so impossible and unreal. She had written to him, but had said nothing of Weevil's death, afraid he might think she was appealing to him for help; neither had she signed herself Titania Lascelles, nor told him of her aristocratic relations. The story had appeared unreal somehow the morning after, and the old man's manner and audible whispers had aroused her suspicions. She thought it would be best to wait a little before telling Aubrey.
"What be yew going to du?" asked Mary, busy as ever, punching the dough in her bread-pan.
"I am going to try and hang on till spring, and then see if I can't make a living by taking in boarders," said the child seriously. "Mr. Weevil left a little money, and I have a tiny bit saved up. There will be just enough to pay rent, and keep me, if I am very careful."
"Butter and eggs and such ain't going to cost yew nought," said Mary cheerily, though Peter would have groaned to hear her.