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:
"In 'er 'air (_whimper_) she wore a white cam-eelyer,
Dark blue (_whimper_) was the colour of 'er heye." (_Whimper._)
It was like a religious service with one devout worshipper.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Cuckoo walked slowly along. It was a dark night, very still
and very damp. The frost had gone. The stars were spending their
brightness on clouds that were a carpet to them, a roof to poor human
beings who could not see them.
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