The sale of Jessie had brought in enough money to keep Mrs. Brigg quiet for a little while, but not enough to satisfy her claim against Cuckoo, or to give Cuckoo food.  It went as an instalment towards the rent.  Now the landlady began to clamour again, and Cuckoo was literally starving.  One night her despair reached a point of cruelty which drove her out into the street, not for the old reason, not at all for that.  Cuckoo was sheathed in armour from head to foot against sin and its wages.  Her obstinacy seemed to her the only thing that really lived in her miserable body, her miserable soul.  It was surely obstinacy which pulsed in her heart, which shone in her hollow eyes, tingled in her tired limbs, flushed her thin cheeks with blood, gave her mind a thought, her will the impetus to mark time in this desolation.  Cuckoo was like a hollow shell containing the everlasting murmur, “I’ll starve—­for him.”  Whether her starvation was useless or not did not concern her at this moment.  She no longer even saw those ghosts.  She seemed blind and deaf and dull in a fashion, yet driven by an active despair.  Had Jessie been with her still, she could have stayed within doors.  The little dog’s faint and regular breathing, her occasional rustling movements, had made just enough music to keep Cuckoo still faintly singing even when her heart was saddest.  Now her room and her life were empty of all song, and Jessie’s untenanted basket—­in which the red flannel seemed to Cuckoo like blood—­was a spectre and a vision of hell.

So, on this night, Cuckoo put on her hat and jacket.  She meant to go out, to walk anywhere, just to move, to be in the open air.  As she went into the passage she ran against Mrs. Brigg.  The gas-jet was alight, and the landlady could see how she was dressed.  Suddenly Mrs. Brigg fell on Cuckoo and began slobbering her with kisses.

The old wretch actually began to whimper.  She had been sore tried, and must have had a fragment of affection for Cuckoo somewhere about her nature.  For she did not want to part with her, and the tears she now let fall were prompted not only by a prospect of money coming in to her, but also of pleasure in the thought that Cuckoo had not entirely gone to the bad.  She wept like the mother who sees her child return from its evil way.

Cuckoo thrust her away without a word, violently.  Mrs. Brigg did not resent the action, but fell against the passage wall sobbing and murmuring, “My precious, my chickabiddy!” while Cuckoo banged the hall door and went out into the night.  Then the landlady, moved by a sacred impulse of pardon, bolted down to her kitchen and began to rummage enthusiastically in her larder.  She knew Cuckoo had been near to starving, and had supported the knowledge with great equanimity while this prodigal daughter chose to wander in wicked ways of idleness.  But now she killed the fatted calf with trembling hands, and made haste to set out a reverend supper in Cuckoo’s parlour to welcome her on her return.  The cold bacon, the pot of porter, the bread, the butter, all were Mrs. Brigg’s symbols of pardon and of peace!  And as she laid them on the table she sang: