Part 93 (1/2)

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

THE a.s.sa.s.sIN

John Vaughan's face paled with the sudden realization of the tremendous deed he was about to do. It had seemed the only solution of the Nation's life and his own, an hour ago. The air of Was.h.i.+ngton reeked with deadly hatred of the President. Every politician who could not control his big, straightforward, honest mind was his enemy. The gloom which shrouded the country over Grant's losses and the failure of his campaign had set every hound yelping at his heels in full cry. He spent much of his time in the hospitals visiting and cheering the wounded soldiers. These men were his friends. They believed in his honesty, his gentleness and his humanity, and yet so deadly had grown the pa.s.sions of war and so bitter the madness of political prejudice that the majority of the wounded men were going to vote against him in the approaching election.

An informal vote taken in Carver Hospital had shown the amazing result of three to one in favor of McClellan!

John Vaughan, in his fevered imagination, had felt that he was rendering a heroic service to the people in removing the one obstacle to peace.

The President was the only man who could possibly defeat McClellan and continue the war. He was denounced by the opposition as usurper, tyrant, and dictator. He was denounced by thousands of men in his own party as utterly unfit to wield the power he possessed.

And yet, as he heard the slow, heavy footfall approaching the door, a moment of agonizing doubt gripped his will and weakened his arm. His eye rested on a worn thumbed copy of the Bible which lay open on the desk.

This man, who was not a church member, in the loneliness of his awful responsibilities, had been searching there for guidance and inspiration.

There was a pathos in the thought that found his inner conscience through the mania that possessed him.

Well, he'd test him. He would try this tyrant here alone before the judgment bar of his soul--condemn him to death or permit him to live, as he should prove true or false to his mighty trust.

His hand touched his revolver again and he set his square jaws firmly.

The tall figure entered and closed the door.

A flash of blind rage came from the depths of John Vaughan's dark eyes at the first sight of him. He moved forward a step and his hand trembled in a desperate instinctive desire to kill. He was a soldier. His enemy was before him advancing. To kill had become a habit. It seemed the one natural thing to do.

He stopped with a shock of surprise as the President turned his haggard eyes in a dazed way and looked about the room.

The light fell full on his face increasing its ghost-like pathetic expression. The story of anxiety and suffering was burnt in letters of fire that left his features a wrinkled mask of grey ashes. The drooping eyelids were swollen, and dark bags hung beneath them. The muscles of his ma.s.sive jaws were flaccid, the lines about his large expressive mouth terrible in their eloquence. His sombre eyes seemed to gaze on the world with the anguish of millions in their depths.

For a moment John Vaughan was held in a spell by the unexpected apparition.

”You are alone, sir?” the quiet voice slowly asked.

”Yes.”

”I had expected Miss Winter----”

”She came with me and was compelled to leave.”

”Oh--will you pull up a chair.”

The tall form dropped wearily at his desk. His voice had a far-away expression in its tones.

”And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

”My name is Vaughan--John Vaughan----”

The dark head was lifted with interest:

”The brother of Ned Vaughan, who escaped from prison?”