Philip Martindale was very glad that his cousin had not asked any importunate questions concerning the motive of his journey to London, but he was very sorry that the journey had been fruitless. He was desirous of returning as soon as possible to Brigland, that he might there discuss with Lord and Lady Martindale, whom he had left at the Abbey, the important matter which had occupied his thoughts, as described at the close of the last chapter. For as yet they knew nothing of the discovery of Mr. John Martindale’s daughter; and their impression concerning the young gentleman’s journey to town was, that he had been there with a view of endeavouring to ascertain the real meaning and origin of the rumours which were afloat as touching their opulent relative. Philip, on his return to Brigland, explained the whole affair.

Thereupon serious looks were assumed by Lord and Lady Martindale, and those serious looks reflected by their honorable son. They were all three greatly perplexed—they all three uttered many wise sayings—they all three talked the matter over with great deliberation—they all three resolved and concluded that something must be done; but they were all three at a loss to know what must be done. Looking at one another was not the best way to get over their perplexities, and yet it is what people often do in perplexities; nor was there any progress made by the simultaneous and harmonious expression of wishing that matters had been otherwise. The past will not return, and that which is done cannot be undone. There is no great wisdom in this discovery; the merit is in applying it to practical purposes. A great deal of time is lost, and a great deal of trouble and pains incurred, for want of the wisdom which the above truism would teach. Lady Martindale repeated what she had said before, as to the impolicy of Philip’s accepting the old gentleman’s offer of the Abbey. Philip repeated what he had said before, namely, that he might have offended and alienated the old gentleman by a refusal. Lord Martindale repeated, that there was some truth and propriety in what they both said. Still they were no nearer to a conclusion promising any satisfaction.

In the midst of this perplexity, Philip thought it would be a good time to propose his own scheme for getting rid of all the difficulty by offering his hand to Clara Rivolta. He was not, however, without his fears that the proposal would not be acceptable to Lord and Lady Martindale: he therefore approached the subject cautiously and circuitously. After a little pause, and with a change of tone and altered look, as if the question of what must be done had been adjourned and a new topic called, he began to talk of the meeting with these newly-discovered relatives in such a manner as to lead Lady Martindale to ask particularly as to their appearance and manner. To this inquiry he gave such an answer as impressed her ladyship with a higher opinion of them all three than he had actually expressed in his description of them. He uttered his compliments in the tone and with the air of concession, and his language was circuitous, so that it did not appear purposely directed to the object of exciting a high opinion of the party. When he spoke of Signora Rivolta, he did not say that her style was truly noble and commanding, but he said that her style and address reminded him of the Hon. Mrs. B——, or of Lady Charlotte D——. Then he added some little qualification of the comparison; but the qualification was rather in favor of the daughter of John Martindale, so far as the taste of Lady Martindale was concerned; for it is a notorious fact that all sensible people think differently from the rest of the world. Therefore, if there be in any character or individual a little more or a little less than what the world in general is supposed to consider the medium of excellence, sensible people rather admire such excess or defect. Sensible people, for instance, may admire that eccentricity which is not according to the popular standard. Some may admire rather more than the standard allowance of pride, or prefer a little deficiency in the article of meekness. Philip was well acquainted with his mother’s taste in all these matters, and therefore he extolled the ladies to his mother’s mind, though he did not loudly praise them to her ear; for he spoke of the daughter after the same manner as he had spoken of the mother.

Another pause following this part of the conversation, gave an opportunity to Lord Martindale to suggest that it might perhaps be advisable for Philip to marry the young foreigner, and thus to have a double hold on Mr. John Martindale’s affections. This proposal was very artfully insinuated into his lordship’s mind by the manner in which Philip had spoken of the high esteem in which Mr. John Martindale appeared to hold his new family. When his lordship had spoken, Philip did not reply, waiting for Lady Martindale’s opinion, which was generally of more weight in the family than that of his lordship. No answer being given, the question was repeated.

Philip then replied, that what his lordship had said was perfectly true; the property of Mr. John Martindale would be clearly secured by this arrangement, and so far as the young lady was concerned, there could be no objection on the ground of style and manner, or of education.

This was said hesitatingly, so that his lordship was under the necessity of asking what other objection there could be; to which Mr. Philip ventured to mention the circumstance of her mother’s birth. Now this on Philip’s part was a very affected refinement; but it was said for Lady Martindale’s ear, who then replied, that such objection was fastidious indeed, if the ladies were such as they had been described. The greatest objection to such a step was, in her opinion, that it was not quite so sure of answering the purpose in point of property as they imagined. There was no answering for caprice; and it was possible that the property might be so left, as that Philip might have no power over it.

This objection staggered the young gentleman’s resolution, and rendered his scheme not so totally unexceptionable as he had imagined it to be. He looked thoughtful; and Lady Martindale continued, saying, that after all this plan would but increase and perpetuate her son’s dependence: that so long as he was unmarried, an opportunity might occur for him to marry a fortune, and place himself out of the power of Mr. John Martindale’s caprice. But again Philip replied, that if he should marry a fortune, and not please his cousin by his marriage, he should then lose all expectation from him, and that there were very few fortunes accessible that would compensate for the loss of Mr. John Martindale’s friendship. The whole deliberation at last concluded without coming to any definite conclusion.

Lady Martindale repeated, and Lord Martindale coincided with her in the opinion, that the wisest scheme of all would be, that Philip should give himself to public business, and that then he might be independent without forfeiting the friendship of his cousin. But Philip could not get the Jews out of his head, and the Jews could not get Philip out of their books.

In this unpleasant state of mind the honorable gentleman continued for several days; during which time Mr. John Martindale remained still in London, highly delighted with his Italian relatives, and exhibiting them wherever he could, though at that time of year there was comparatively little opportunity of displaying them. Philip made inquiries at his cousin’s cottage every morning, but no intelligence concerning the old gentleman could be procured. Lord and Lady Martindale took their leave of the Abbey, and Philip promised to join them in London before the end of January, by which time, perhaps, something might occur which would decide him as to what steps he should take.

The day at length arrived for the Newmarket meeting. Much business was expected to be transacted, and some very fine races were anticipated. The town was delightfully full, and Philip was in all his glory. He thought not of the Jews, or any of his other creditors. The charms of Clara Rivolta were forgotten; and the lively Celestina would have been forgotten too, but she was present on the ground.

The barouche of Sir Gilbert Sampson was most conveniently placed; and on the box thereof sat Celestina Sampson at her father’s side, and within were two other young ladies attended by the fragrant Henry Augustus Tippetson. The morning was fine, and the ground was brilliant. Rank, beauty, and fashion were there; the cream of English nobility; the stars of English beauty; souls of the first order; the pride of that nation which is the pride of the world. Glorious was the object for which they were assembled, and deep was the feeling with which their minds were animated. Who could look without emotion, or think without interest, on a scene like this? Where should our hereditary legislators, our modern Solons and Lycurguses, so well learn the science of government as in converse with black-legs and stable-boys? What occupation so befitting the most noble, the right honorable of the land—the superfine part of the species—the arbiters of the world’s destiny—the brightest lights of the collective wisdom of the nation—as the spending of princely fortunes to see how much faster one horse can run than another? And when the horses start, and while they are straining all their sinews, and while one rogue or another is trying how much he can make of the simpletons there, how intense is the interest! Every eye is strained, every neck is stretched, breathing is almost suspended, and the heart is almost afraid to beat; and when the great event is decided, then how many purses change hands, and how many blockheads go home again repenting their folly. But let that pass. It is enough for us here to state that the Hon. Philip Martindale was the winner, and that to a very considerable amount. He received the congratulations of his friends. Sir Gilbert and Miss Sampson congratulated him. Henry Augustus Tippetson congratulated him. Philip, however, had many accounts to settle; some on one side, and some on the other. There was not one to whom he lost a bet who found any inconvenience in receiving it—there were a few of whom he won who found it inconvenient to pay. Some of those to whom he paid were so very desirous that he should win again what he had lost, that they politely and considerately invited him to the hazard-table; and when he left the hazard-table, he was not so much an object of congratulation as he had been at the conclusion of the race. He was very much fatigued; quite worn out by the day’s toil and the night’s play. Legislation must be quite rest and refreshment to the honorable, right honorable, and most noble frequenters of the race-course and the hazard-table.

The honorable dependent on the bounty of John Martindale retired to his lodgings, and looked over his betting-book and into his pocket-book, and considering that he was a winner at the race, he found himself much poorer than he expected. He felt no inclination to lay violent hands on himself; he did not clench his fists and strike his knuckles upon the table, nor did he beat his own forehead, nor did he think of hanging himself when he took off his garters, or entertain the slightest idea of cutting his throat when he looked at his razors. From what we have seen in plays and read in story-books about gambling, one should imagine that pistol-making and rope-twisting would be the best trades going at Newmarket; we are not sure that it may not be so, but we have never heard that it is. At all events, we do know that when Philip Martindale found that he was a considerable loser in the long run, though he had been a winner on the turf, he was very deeply mortified, and looked very foolish. He wished himself back in his chambers at the Temple; but he did not use any violent gesticulations, or groan aloud so as to alarm the people of the house. We think it especially necessary to mention these facts, in order to let our readers know what a very curious character Philip Martindale was. His conduct deserves to be particularly mentioned in the present case, because it seems to be the general practice, judging from books, for all gamblers when they lose their money to look very pale, to get very drunk, to clench their fists, and to stamp so as to split the very boards of the floor, and finally to hang, drown, poison, or shoot themselves. The last is the most common. Such is the usual description, and real life no doubt has exhibited some such cases; but powerfully as these may have been painted, we much question if that extreme delineation has been serviceable to the cause of morals. Nor are we afraid that, because we have here stated a very ordinary case of a silly young gentleman losing his money, and not going distracted and blowing out his brains, we shall therefore give encouragement to others to throw away their time and money in the same foolish way.

The poor young man however found it very difficult to sleep after his losses; for though he was not distracted, he was grievously troubled in spirit, and much bewildered in his thoughts. He wished, over and over again, that he had not sat down to hazard; but his wishing did not bring back what he had lost. He almost wished that he had not been born an hereditary legislator, for then he might have applied himself to some useful pursuit, and not have been under the necessity of going to Newmarket and losing his money in a right honorable way to keep up his dignity. But it is very hard if a man of rank and fortune cannot have his amusements, and what else can a man of rank and fortune do with his time and property than waste them among sharpers?

It became now more and more imperative upon the young gentleman that he should seriously set himself to repair his broken fortunes, and his various meditations on the plans which suggested themselves for that purpose very naturally prevented him from sleeping. His habits had not much accustomed him to that application which business might require, and his recent patrician contempt of study had put him into possession of so large a stock of ignorance as to be rather in the way of his promotion. It is not indeed much to be wondered at that, considering how widely and deeply education has lately been diffused, the higher sort of people should now and then court the singularity of not knowing, and preserve their separation from the inferior orders by an ignorance of that which every body knows; for it is very clear that whatever becomes universal, must of necessity cease to be fashionable: therefore the education bestowed upon the multitude must compel the higher ranks in their own defence to cultivate ignorance, unless they would give themselves the trouble of toiling more laboriously in pursuit of knowledge than the lower orders. That is not very likely.