CHAPTER XIV
THE KING IS DEAD.
Enormous wealth, power in the world of
finance, every luxury that is at the command of
man except health, that Jay Gould possessed. On
Friday morning, December 3, 1892, at 9:15 o'clock,
his wonderful career was ended. It was a perfect
December morning when the soul of the magnate
went to the undiscovered country, whither it had
been trending for so many months. He died, not as
he had feared to die, by the hand of the assassin or
the dynamite crank, but as peacefully as any babe
whose lamp of life has dwindled to a spark ere it
flickers and goes out. He died surrounded by his
children, in the plain, rear-extension bedroom, with
its window looking down upon the conservatory. It
was the room in which his wife died before him, and
which he had since occupied whenever he was in
the city. It led to the little study where only his
most intimate friends were admitted. Here the last
remnant of his strength ebbed away, and even while an
attendant turned him, he was gone, and $100,000,000
were without a master. All the members of his
family were at his bedside. There were George J.
Gould and his wife, who was Edith Kingdon. There
were Edwin Gould and the young woman, Dr.
