In spite of his very real sympathy a smile crossed his father's lips, and yet as he looked at Richard it somehow died away. Youthful as he was, barely one-and-twenty, there was a set determination, a staid manliness, in his whole mien that added five years at least to his age.
Even to a disinterested eye he seemed a son of whom any father might be proud; not tall—the massive, thick-set figure seemed made for strength more than grace—but the face was pre-eminently handsome, the dark eyes beamed with intelligence, the forehead was broad and benevolent, the lips still closed with the old inflexibility, but the hard lines had relaxed: firm and dominant, yet ruled by the single eye of integral principle; there was no fear that Richard Lambert would ever overstep the boundaries of a clearly-defined right.
'That is my brave boy,' murmured his father at last, watching him with a sort of wistful pain; 'but, Cardie, I cannot but feel grieved that you have set your heart on this girl.'
'What! do you doubt the wisdom or the fitness of my choice?' demanded the young man hotly.
'Both, Cardie; the girl is everything that one could wish; dear to me almost as a daughter of my own, but Trelawny—ah, my poor boy, do you dream that you can satisfy her father's ambition?'
'I shall not try to do so,' returned Richard, speaking with set lips; 'I know him too well; he would sell her to the highest bidder, sell his own flesh and blood; but she is too noble for his corrupting influence.'
'You speak bitterly, Cardie.'
'I speak as I feel. Look here, father, foolishly or wisely, it does not matter now, I have set my heart on this thing; I have grown up with this one idea before me, the hope of one day, however distant, calling Ethel Trelawny my wife. I do not think I am one to change.'
Mr. Lambert shook his head.
'I fear not, Cardie.'