"Tom Clark nearly fainted! The lump weighed not less than a pound. Its sides had been scratched by him as he dug away the earth at the foot of the cliff where his wife had landed, after a brief flight through four hundred feet of empty air—a profitable journey for him—but not for her, nor the horse, nor buggy!
"For a minute Clark stood still, utterly bewildered, and wiping the great round beads of sweat from off his brow. He wept at every pore. But it was for a minute only: in the next he was madly, wildly digging with the trowel he always carried with him, for Tom was Herb-Doctor in general for the region roundabout, and was great at the root and herb business, therefore went prepared to dig them wherever chance disclosed them.
"Five long hours did he labor like a Hercules, in the soft mould, in the crevices of the rocks—everywhere—and with mad energy, with frantic zeal. Five long hours did he ply that trowel with all the force that the hope of sudden wealth inspired, and then, exhausted, spent, he sank prostrate on the ground, his head resting on a mass of yellow gold—gold not in dust, or flecks, or scales, but in great and massy lumps and wedges, each one large enough for a poor man's making.
"That morning Thomas Clark's worldly wealth, all told, could have been bought thrice over for any five of the pieces then beneath his head, and there were scores of them. His brain reeled with the tremendous excitement. He had struck the richest 'Lead' ever struck by mortal man on the surface of the planet, for he had already collected more than he could lift, and he was a very strong and powerful man. There was enough to fill a two-peck measure, packed and piled as close and high as it could be; and yet he had just begun. Ah, Heaven, it was too much!
"Alas, poor Tom! poor, doubly poor, with all thy sudden, boundless wealth! Thou art even poorer than Valmondi, who, the legends say, gave his soul to the service of the foul fiend—for he, like thee, had riches inexhaustible; but, unlike Valmondi, and the higher Brethren of the Rosie Cross, thou hast not the priceless secret of Perpetual youth. Thou wilt grow old, Tom Clark—grow old, and sick, and grey hairs and wrinkles will overtake thee. And see! yonder is an open grave, and it yearns for thee, Tom Clark, it yearns for thee! And there's Blood upon thy hands, Tom Clark, red gouts of Blood—and gold cannot wash it off.
"Valmondi repented, and died a beggar, but thy heart is cased in golden armor, and the shafts of Mercy may not reach its case, and wake thee up to better deeds, and high and lofty daring for the world and for thy fellow-men. Gold! Ah, Tom, Tom, thou hadst better have been a humble Rosicrucian—better than I, for weakness has been mine. It is better to labor hard with brain and tongue and hands, for mere food and raiment, than be loaded down with riches, that bear many a man earthward, and fill untimely graves! It is better to live on bread, and earn it, than to be a millionaire. Better to have heaped up wealth of Goodness, than many bars of Gold. Poor Tom! Rich you are in what self-seeking men call wealth; but poor, ah, how poor! in the better having, which whetteth the appetite for knowledge, and its fruitage, Wisdom, and which sendeth man, at night, to Happy Dream land, upon the viewless pinions of sweet and balmy Sleep! Every dollar above labor brings ten thousand evils in its train.
"Well, night was close at hand, and Tom buried his God, and went home. Home, did I say? Not so. He went to his bed, to sleep, and in that sleep he dreamed that it was raining double eagles, while he held his hat beneath the spout. But he was not home, for home is where the heart is, and we have seen the locality of Clark's.
"For days, weeks, months, he still worked at his 'Lead,' studiously keeping his own counsel, and managing the affair, from first to last, with the most consummate tact; so that no one even suspected that the richest man in California, and on the entire continent, was Mr. Thomas W. By degrees he conveyed to, and had vast sums coined at the mint, as agent for some mining companies. A few hogsheads he buried here and there, and sprinkled some dozens of barrels elsewhere about the ground. This he continued to do until at last even his appetite for gold was doubly, triply glutted; and then he sprung the secret, sold his claim for three millions, cash in hand, and forthwith moved, and set up an establishment close under Telegraph Hill, in the best locality in all Santa Blarneeo.
"And now everybody and his wife bowed to Mr. Thomas W., and did homage to—his money. Curious, isn't it, how long some gods will live? About three thousand years ago a man of Israel fashioned one out of borrowed jewelry, fashioned it in the form of a veal, after which he proclaimed it, and all the human calves fell down straightway, and a good many are still bent on worshipping at the self-same shrine. That calf has retained to this day 'eleven-tenths' of earth's most zealous adoration! So now did men reverence Clark's money. Women smiled upon him, ambitious spinsters ogled, and hopeful maidens set their caps to enthrall him. He could carry any election, gave tone to the Money Market, reigned supreme and undisputed king on ''Change,' and people took him for a happy man; and so he was, as long as daylight lasted, and he was steadily employed; but, somehow or other, his nights were devilishly unpleasant! He could not rest well, for in the silence of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon man, an unsheeted ghost passed before his face, bearing a most damnably correct similitude to a former female acquaintance of his, now, alas! deceased; and not unfrequently, as he hurried along the streets, did he encounter persons who bore surprising and unmistakable resemblances to the 'dear departed.'
"'Black clouds come up, like sinful visions,
To distract the souls of solitary men.'