poured in
yet more, till the spirit rose to the top of the cuts, which ran higher
than half-way up the sides of the tumbler. There was silence for a few
minutes, while the organist puffed testily at his pipe; but a copious
draught from the tumbler melted his chagrin, and he spoke again:

"I've had a precious hard life, but Miss Joliffe's had a harder; and
I've got myself to thank for my bad luck, while hers is due to other
people. First, her father died. He had a farm at Wydcombe, and people
thought he was well off; but when they came to reckon up, he only left
just enough to go round among his creditors; so Miss Euphemia gave up
the house, and came into Cullerne. She took this rambling great place
because it was cheap at twenty pounds a year, and lived, or half lived,
from hand to mouth, giving her niece (the girl you saw) all the grains,
and keeping the husks for herself. Then a year ago turned up her
brother Martin, penniless and broken, with paralysis upon him. He was a
harum-scarum ne'er-do-well. Don't stare at me with that
Saul-among-the-prophets look; _he_ never drank; he would have been a
better man if he had." And the organist made a further call on the
squat bottle. "He would have given her less bother if he had drunk, but
he was always getting into debt and trouble, and then used to come back
to his sister, as to a refuge, because he knew she loved him. He was
clever enough--brilliant they call it now--but unstable as water, with
no lasting power. I don't believe he meant to sponge on his sister; I
don't think he knew he did sponge, only he sponged. He would go off on
his travels, no one knew where, though they knew well what he was
seeking. Sometimes he was away two months, and sometimes he was away
two years; and then, when Miss Joliffe had kept Anastasia--I mean her
niece--all the time, and perhaps got a summer lodger, and seemed to be
turning the corner, back would come Martin again to beg money for debts,
and eat them out of house and home. I've seen that many a time, and
many a time my heart has ached for them; but what could I do to help? I
haven't a farthing. Last he came back a year ago, with death written on
his face. I was glad enough to read it there, and think he was come for
the last time to worry them; but it was paralysis, and he a strong man,
so that it took that fool Ennefer a long time to kill him. He only died
two months ago; here's better luck to him where he's gone."