TOM
In the last few chapters I have made but little mention of Tom. The time
was drawing nearer when I was to lose him for ever. Until early in 1876
we lived together in the closest intimacy. We pooled our resources, and
when either ran short of money, which often happened, the common purse,
if it were not empty, was always available. Similar in height and in
figure, our clothes, except our hats, boots and gloves, in each of which
I took a larger size than he, were, when occasion required,
interchangeable. We standardised our wardrobe as far as we could. We
rose together, ate together, retired together, and, except during
business hours, were rarely apart. I being, he considered, the more
prudent in money matters, kept our lodging accounts and paid the bills.
He being more musical, and a greater lover of the drama than I, arranged
our visits to the theatres and concert halls. I was the practical, he
the aesthetical controller of our joint menage. Once I remember--this
occurred before we left Derby--we both fancied ourselves in love with the
same dear enchantress, a certain dark-eyed brunette. Each punctually
paid his court, as opportunity offered, and each, when he could, most
obligingly furthered the suit of the other; and this went on till the
time arrived for Tom's departure to Glasgow, when I was left in
possession of the field. Then I discovered, to my surprise, that I was
not so deeply enamoured as I had imagined; and, curiously enough, Tom on
his part had no sooner settled in Scotland than he made a similar
discovery.
The climate of Glasgow never suited Tom's health and in 1876, on the
advice of his doctors, he decided to return to England. For a time he
seemed to regain his health, but only for a time. Soon he relapsed, and
before another year dawned it became evident, if not to himself, to his
friends, that his years on earth were numbered. With what grief I heard
the news, which came to me from his parents, I need not say. Bravely for
a while he struggled with work, but all in vain; he had to give in, and
return to his parents' home in Lincolnshire. That home he never again
left, except once, in the summer of 1877, to visit my wife and me, when
he stayed with us for several weeks. Though greatly reduced and very
thin, and capable only of short walks he was otherwise unchanged; the
lively fancy, the bright humor and the sparkling wit, which made him so
delightful a companion, were scarcely diminished. He himself was
hopeful; talked of recovery, planned excursions which he and I should
take together when his health returned; but his greatest pleasure was in
recalling our Derby days, our _Maypole_ visits, our country rambles, our
occasional dances and flirtations, and our auld acquaintances generally.
Tom was remarkable for the quickness of his observation, for keen
penetration of character, and for happy humorous description of
particular traits in those he met. He possessed, too, a wonderfully
retentive memory. It is largely due to his lively descriptions of our
interesting fellow clerks at Derby that I have been able, after the lapse
of half a century, to sketch them with the fidelity I have. His humorous
accounts of their peculiarities often enlivened the hours we spent
together, and impressed their personalities more forcibly on my mind than
they otherwise would have been.
When his visit came to an end, and he returned to his home, I too
indulged in the hope that he might regain some measure of health, for he
seemed much improved. But it was a temporary improvement only, due in
part, perhaps, to change in environment, and in part to the exhilaration
arising from our reunion, heart and mind for a time dominating the body
and stimulating it to an activity which produced this fair but deceptive
semblance of health. His letters to me breathed the spirit of hope till
almost the last. We never met again. The intention I had cherished of
going to see him was never fulfilled. The illness of my wife and the
death of one of our children, and other unfortunate causes, prevented it;
and in little more than a year and a half from our farewell grasp of the
hand at the railway station in Glasgow my dear and beloved friend
breathed his last. Often and often since I have heard again the music of
his voice, have seen his face smiling upon me, and have felt
"_His being working in mine own_,
_The footsteps of his life in mine_."