A widow was his enslaver and tormentor--the old story.
She sued him for breach of promise of marriage. The trial made great fun
for the lawyers, reporters, and the amused public generally; but it was
no fun for him. He was mulcted for six thousand dollars and costs of the
suit. It was during the time I was renting one of his offices on
Washington street. I called to see him, wishing to have some repairs
made. His clerk met me in the narrow hall, and there was a mischievous
twinkle in his eye as he said:
"You had better come another day--the old man has just paid that
judgment in the breach of promise case, and he is in a bad way."
Hearing our voices, he said,
"Who is there?--come in."
I went in, and found him sitting leaning on his desk, the picture of
intense wretchedness. He was all unstrung, his jaw fallen, and a most
pitiful face met mine as he looked up and said, in a broken voice,
"Come some other day--I can do no business today; I am very unwell."
He was indeed sick--sick at heart. I felt sorry for him. Pain always
excites my pity, no matter what may be its cause. He was a miser, and
the payment of those thousands of dollars was like tearing him asunder.
He did not mind the jibes of the newspapers, but the loss of the money
was almost killing.
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