keeper and her niece as they were taking early tea and hot-buttered toast in the former lady's apartment, and wondered how the Rawding Crawleys could git on, the valet had damped and folded the paper once more, so that it looked quite fresh and innocent against the arrival of the master of the house.
Poor Rawdon took up the paper and began to try and read it until his brother should arrive. But the print fell blank upon his eyes; and he did not know in the least what he was reading. The Government news and appointments, (which Sir Pitt as a public man was bound to peruse, otherwise he would by no means permit the introduction of Sunday papers into his household), the theatrical criticisms, the fight for a hundred pounds a-side between the Barking Butcher and the Tutbury Pet, the Gaunt House chronicle itself, which contained a most complimentary though guarded account of the famous charades of which Mrs. Becky had been the heroine—all these passed as in a haze before Rawdon, as he sat waiting the arrival of the chief of the family.
Punctually, as the shrill-toned bell of the black marble study clock began to chime nine, Sir Pitt made his appearance, fresh, neat, smugly shaved, with a waxy clean face, and stiff shirt collar, his scanty hair combed and oiled, trimming his nails as he descended the stairs majestically, in a starched cravat and a gray flannel dressing-gown,—a real old English gentleman,—in a word, a model of neatness and every propriety. He started when he saw poor Rawdon in his study in tumbled clothes, with blood-shot eyes, and his hair over his face. He thought his brother was not sober, and had been out all night on some orgy. "Good Gracious, Rawdon," he said, with a blank face, "what brings you here at this time of the morning? Why ain't you at home?"
"Home," said Rawdon, with a wild laugh. "Don't be frightened, Pitt. I 'm not drunk. Shut the door; I want to speak to you." Pitt closed the door and came up to the table, where he sate down in the other arm chair,—that one placed for the reception of the steward, agent, or confidential visitor who came to transact business with the baronet,—and trimmed his nails more vehemently than ever.
"Pitt, it 's all over with me," the Colonel said, after a pause. "I'm done."
"I always said it would come to this," the Baronet cried, peevishly, and beating a tattoo with his clean-trimmed nails. "I warned you a thousand times. I can't help you any more. Every shilling of my money is tied up. Even the hundred pounds that Jane took you last night were promised to my lawyer to-morrow morning; and the want of it will put me to great inconvenience. I don't mean to say that I won't assist you ultimately. But as for paying your creditors in full, I might as well hope to pay the National Debt. It is madness, sheer madness, to think of such a thing. You must come to a compromise. It 's a painful thing for the family; but everybody does it. There was George Kitely, Lord Bagland's son, went through the Court last week, and was what they call white-washed, I believe. Lord Bagland would not pay a shilling for him, and"
"It's not money I want," Rawdon broke in. "I'm not come to you about myself. Never mind what happens to me"
