little old dame, creeps in one day, sits by our fire, amuses us, comforts us, occupies us, and–before we know it–we feel a wrench if we are obliged to move away.
Nevertheless we must all move some time or another. Everybody does–even the I.G., whose going had been so often prophesied and again so often contradicted that he had come to be regarded as the one fixed star twinkling unselfishly in the heaven of duty.
The morning of his going, I remember, broke fine and clear. The sky was beautifully blue, like an inverted turquoise bowl. The little railway station must have been startled half out of its wits by all the people flocking in. Such a thing in all its history had never happened before. Under the low grey roof trooped guards of honour sent by every nationality–all for the sake of one man who was only a civilian, and nothing but a private individual. There were this man’s own nationals in the central position–a company of splendid Highlanders with pipers, and stretching away down the platform there were American marines, Italian sailors, Dutch marines and Japanese soldiers. And, of course, there were Chinese, no less than three detachments of them, looking very well in their new khaki uniforms. Two of the detachments had brought their bands, and the I.G.’s own band had come of its own accord to play “Auld Lang Syne.”
[Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF SIR ROBERT HART’S HOUSE.
With his butler, Ah Fong, who served him for almost half a century.]
As the I.G. stepped from his sedan chair at the end of the platform his face wore an expression of bewilderment, but only for a moment. Then he turned to the commanding officer, and saying “I am ready,” walked steadily down the lines of saluting troops while the bands all played “Home, Sweet Home.” Just as quietly he said good-bye to the host of Chinese officials with whom he had been associated so long; then turned to the Europeans whom he had known so well, to all of whom he had done so many kindnesses, and none of whom could say “bon voyage” dry-eyed, while camera fiends “snapped” him as he shook hands and said last good-byes. At last he stepped on board the train and slowly drew away from the crowd, bowing again and again in his modest way.
So far as his work was concerned he could go without regrets. He left his career behind him with no frayed edges that could tangle. He had fulfilled all his ambitions. He had “bought back Kilmoriarty and got a title too,” as he promised his aunt he would while still a boy in his teens. He had collected an almost unprecedented number of honours, been decorated no less than twenty-four times, eight, however, being promotions in the Orders. But still that left him sixteen to wear, and of those sixteen, thirteen were Grand Crosses. As a matter of fact he never wore any of them when he could help it, and never more than one at a time. “I do not want to look like a Christmas tree,” he would say in joke. This was his humility again.
He certainly was humble, and he looked so. There was never the slightest pomp or pride about him. “A small, insignificant Irishman,” so some one has described him. Is he small? I dare say he is, but one never notices it. One notices only the long face still further lengthened by a beard, the domed forehead, the bright eyes, very inscrutable usually, very sympathetic when he chooses to make them so; and when he speaks, a soft voice, quiet and even-toned but often indistinct. Not given to demonstrativeness, he appears the same under all conditions–silent when depressed, silent too when cheerful; he may smile, but he will never laugh outright–unless called upon in society to make a special effort to amuse somebody. Then he does it, as he does all he sets out to do, well.
But usually he allows other people to instruct him, listening patiently and giving so little hint of what he himself thinks that few people know him intimately and the general public stands a little in awe of him. What more natural? His work has been a hard disciplinarian, a relentless grudger of little joys; and, as is well known, those who make history have little time to make friends.
Yet on the whole his success has been cheap as successes go. True he worked prodigiously–how he did work, straight on from his University days!–but none of his labours have been hopelessly dull, while some have been exceptionally interesting, and all have been flavoured with a pinch of romance. Further, he has had the satisfaction of filling his years about twice as full as other people’s–of helping more men than most of his neighbours, and of gaining the world’s respect and admiration.
How has he done it? Shall I tell you the secret–or what he often laughingly said was the secret? It lies hidden in a verse which he wrote in his fantastic hand on the desk at which he stood for so many years with unremitting industry. First came two dates “1854–1908,” and then these lines:
“If thou hast yesterday thy duty done, And thereby cleared firm footing for to-day, Whatever clouds may dark to-morrow’s sun, Thou shalt not miss thy solitary way.”
THE END