“They say I am successful. Whom shall I thank but myself? No one. I have climbed the rugged and uneven path alone, unaided. I have bent men to my way of thinking; I am greater than all of them; yes, greater than all. I’ll make my marriage a success too, and with my gold and my beautiful wife, I will commence living. No, I have never lived; I have merely slaved and existed, but now I am getting ready to commence.”
Thus Rufus Grim fed himself on his own egotism, and recounted life’s victories, resulting from his own exertions.
A dark form crouched near him, dimly outlined in the uncertain light. Presently it crept stealthily up behind him. There was a hurried rush, a whistling noise cut sharply through the air; a stifled cry, a heavy fall, and Rufus Grinds body plunged forward into the yawning mouth of the old prospect shaft, and his life’s work was over.
His anticipated happiness, his pompous joy, his earthly prosperity, his vanity and vain-glory, all were over. Had he died by any other method, it might have been said that it was well that his death occurred before he discovered that Bertha Allen, to whom he had given all that was tender in his coarse and pompous life, had cruelly deceived him.
It mattered not now, the decision of the higher courts of earth, but rather the decision of that higher court in heaven. A sounding splash from murky waters far below resounded back to the outer world like a farewell echo, and Rufus Grim’s mangled remains rested near the gold he loved so well. Yes, in the vault where his manhood had been bartered for gold, he slept. There was gold on every side—gold above him and gold beneath him—a priceless mausoleum.
Yes, at last, all that was mortal of the man of inordinate worldly ambition and restless energy, reposed in the monotonous sleep of unbroken stillness.