The thin line of light was now a wedge, it wavered, drew back to a
spider's thread again, then broadened with a flush of colour into a
streaming path. Some one stood in the doorway holding a candle.
Maggie saw that it was Uncle Mathew in his shirt and trousers.
"What is it?" she said.
He swayed as he stood there, his candle making fantastic leaps and
shallows of light. He was smiling at her in a silly way and she saw
that he was drunk. She had had a horror of drunkenness ever since,
as a little girl, she had watched an inebriated carter kicking his
wife. She always, after that, saw the woman's bent head and stooping
shoulders. Now she knew, sitting up in bed, that she was frightened
not only of Uncle Mathew, but of the house, of the whole world.
She was alone. She realised her loneliness in a great flash of
bewilderment and cold terror as though the ground had suddenly
broken away from her and she was on the edge of a vast pit. There
was no one in the house to help her. Her father was dead. The cook
and the maid were sunk in heavy slumber at the other end of the
house. There was no one to help her.
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