In the year 1867, a thin, prematurely old and gray young man of about twenty-six came to work at No. 145 Broadway. No one knew anything about him. He quietly joined our ranks, coming and going each day without drawing much interest. He was very quiet, speaking only when addressed, and then in a low, sweetly musical voice. Everyone conceded he was intelligent and well-educated, but he showed no disposition to mix with the general throng. Consequently, the group, almost without thinking, came to speak of him with more respect than his nickname "old George Phipps" implied, and largely left him to himself.
He sat across the aisle from me. I often studied his sad yet pleasant face, and soon categorized him in my mind with other men I had met—men with histories. I was moderately sure George Phipps had a history, and I longed to know it, eager to offer my young, boyish friendship. But months passed, and we knew no more about him than when he arrived, except that he was a magnificent operator, as sweet as a June day yet as sad as the melancholy days of late autumn. His voice and manner always reminded me of falling October leaves and the autumn wind surging through leafless branches. Yet, glorious sunbeams seemed always to rest on his head, making his life and character sweet and loveable.
One night, during a severe sleet storm that left hardly a wire intact, the full force was on duty, waiting for the lines to be restored. We gathered in little knots, telling stories and speculating about working until morning. For a time, I joined a small group, but finding the topic uninteresting and seeing George Phipps sitting alone, I approached him.
After a brief exchange of commonplaces, I asked abruptly, "Are you a married man, Mr. Phipps?"
The reply came slowly: "No."
That single syllable could not have been colder had it been kept on ice for a century. I saw I had been imprudent, awkwardly touching a sacred chord in the man's heart. I was very sorry and, being young and inexperienced in hiding my emotions, failed miserably. Tears welled in my eyes, my lip trembled, and I felt wretched.
He saw my state at a glance and said kindly, "I beg your pardon, John. I didn't mean to be rude, but I had just been thinking of events scarcely six years old—such bitter, hopeless memories that it seems I've lived a thousand years since that page was turned down in the book of Fate, turned down forever."
He paused, and I said nothing.
"I have never spoken of these things," he continued, "but I think I was something like you at twenty. How sadly I have changed since then!"
He stopped again, then continued, "I don't mind telling you my story, if you would care to hear it."
As I eagerly answered, "Do tell me," he resumed:
"It is a sad story, my little friend. It concerns a woman. Some say hearts do not break; others say women's hearts sometimes do, but a man's is tough and can bear disaster to the affections without material injury. Perhaps that is true, generally speaking, but there are exceptions—the exceptions, I suppose," he said musingly, "that philosophers would tell you prove the rule. You see me today, old and prematurely gray. I have never been a dissipated man. I inherited a fine constitution from my father. I have lived regularly and never suffered from disease, yet I am as you see me. Do you ask if I am heartbroken? I cannot say that, but I have mourned over dead and buried hopes for five years. God's beautiful world will never look so fair and sweet to me again as the hour I close my eyes upon it forever."
He moved slightly in his chair and said, as if studying the matter, "It looks like a case of a broken heart, doesn't it?"