The young man, with another shudder, drew back to the corner of the vehicle farthest from his companion.
The receding lights outside followed the carriage in squares of diminishing illumination, which, shining through the window, made strange play of light and shadow over that inscrutable visage. All at once it became deeply portentous to Lynden; as if by sudden divination he became possessed of a conviction that it was destined to take a high place in his affairs,—signifying, perhaps, the controlling influence in a strange drama, the first scene of which was now upon the boards.
"It is very remarkable," the Captain mused, presently, as if the episode were too much for him.
Lynden started from his reverie.
"Yes," he murmured, not meeting the other's eye. "Yes; it is very remarkable." Both lapsed into a silence that continued until the end of the ride.
As the vehicle proceeds, a few words about those whose names have been mentioned, together with some others who will figure in this narrative, will give a better idea of the importance of the tragedy, the ill tidings of which Lynden had been the bearer.
Both by reason of recognized ability in his profession and of his high family connections, Doctor Mobley Westbrook was leader of the medical fraternity in the city of his birth and residence. He was still youthful in spite of his thirty-five years; democratic in his tastes, immensely popular in every class of society, and for these reasons considerably at odds with his father.
Notwithstanding his popularity, his single excursion into politics had only shown his unfitness for the national game; a circumstance mentioned here because later on he is to have it brought back to him in a manner both forcible and disagreeable.
Singularly enough,—for from another and altogether different sentiment the General himself was popular,—General Westbrook was known to hold his son in some disfavor because he was so well and universally esteemed. His exclusive nature could not brook the physician's democratic inclinations; it made the latter an alien. The General did not understand it, and what he could not understand he disliked.
The two personalities were remarkably divergent in every way. General Peyton Westbrook was an exaggerated type of the old-school Southern gentleman. Strikingly handsome, elegant in appearance, his erect and rigid bearing, together with a falcon-like glance suggested a stature which one in describing would be likely to pronounce tall when in reality it was not much over five feet. His graceful slenderness added considerably to the illusion. His hair was white, his features cameo-like—aristocratic, and stamped with the overweening family pride, to which, with him, every other human emotion was subservient.