HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY. “Louisa!” roared my father down the kitchen stairs, “are you all asleep? Here have I had to answer the front door myself.” Then my father strode into his office, and the door slammed. My father could be very angry when nobody was by.
 
Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, jangle. My mother, who was peeling potatoes with difficulty in wash-leather gloves, looked at my aunt who was shelling peas. The bell rang again louder still this time.
 
“Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?” my aunt.
 
“You go, Paul,” said my mother; “say that Louisa—” but with the words a sudden flush overspread my mother's face, and before I could lay down my she had off her gloves and had passed me. “No, don't stop your lessons, I'll go myself,” she said, and ran out.
 
A few minutes later the kitchen door opened softly, and my mother's hand, appearing through the jar, to me mysteriously.
 
“Walk on your toes,” whispered my mother, setting the example as she led the way up the stairs; which after the manner of stairs showed their of by creaking louder and more often than under any other circumstances; and in this manner we reached my parents' bedroom, where, in the old-fashioned wardrobe, of better days, my best suit of clothes, or, to be grammatical, my better.
 
Never before had I worn these on a week-day morning, but all conversation not to the question of getting into them quickly my mother swept aside; and when I was complete, down even to the new shoes—Bluchers, we called them in those days—took me by the hand, and together we crept down as we had crept up, silent, stealthy and alert. My mother led me to the street door and opened it.
 
“Shan't I want my cap?” I whispered. But my mother only shook her head and closed the door with a bang; and then the explanation of the pantomime came to me, for with such “business”—comic, shall I call it, or ?—I was becoming familiar; and, my mother's hand upon my shoulder, we entered my father's office.
 
Whether from the fact that so often of an evening—our drawing-room being reserved always as a show-room in case of chance visitors; Cowper's poems, open face-downwards on the wobbly loo table; the half-finished work, suggestive of elegant leisure, thrown carelessly over the arm of the smaller easy-chair—this office would become our , its books and papers, as things of no account, being out of sight; or whether from the readiness with which my father would come out of it at all times to play at something else—at cricket in the back garden on dry days or ninepins in the passage on wet, charging back into it again whenever a knock sounded at the front door, I cannot say. But I know that as a child it never occurred to me to regard my father's profession as a serious affair. To me he was merely playing there, surrounded by big books and bundles of documents, labelled but consisting only of blank papers; by japanned tin boxes, lettered , but for the most part empty. “Sutton Hampden, Esq.,” I remember was practically my mother's work-box. The “Drayton Estates” yielded nothing but apples, a fruit of which my father was fond; while “Mortgages” it was not until later in life I discovered had no connection with poems in manuscript, some in course of correction, others completed.
 
Now, as the door opened, he rose and came towards us. His hair stood up from his head, for it was a habit of his to it as he talked; and this added to his evident efforts to compose his face into an expression of businesslike gravity, added emphasis, if such were needed, to the suggestion of the over long schoolboy making believe.
 
“This is the youngster,” said my father, taking me from my mother, and passing me on. “Tall for his age, isn't he?”
 
With a twist of his thick lips, he rolled the evil-smelling cigar he was smoking from the left corner of his mouth to the right; and held out a fat and not too clean hand, which, as it closed round mine, brought to my mind the picture of the in my natural history book; with the other he flapped me on the head.
 
“Like 'is mother, wonderfully like 'is mother, ain't 'e?” he observed, still holding my hand. “And that,” he added with a of one of his small eyes towards my father, “is about the 'ighest compliment I can pay 'im, eh?”
 
His eyes were small, but marvellously bright and piercing; so much so that when he turned them again upon me I tried to think quickly of something nice about him, feeling sure that he could see right into me.
 
“And where are you thinkin' of sendin' 'im?” he continued; “Eton or 'Arrow?”
 
“We haven't quite made up our minds as yet,” replied my father; “at present we are educating him at home.”
 
“You take my tip,” said the fat man, “and learn all you can. Look at me! If I'd 'ad the opportunity of being a schollard I wouldn't be here offering your father an price for doin' my work; I'd be able to do it myself.”
 
“You seem to have got on very well without it,” laughed my father; and in truth his air of prosperity might have greater self-complacency. Rings sparkled on his blunt fingers, and upon the billows of his waistcoat rose and sank a massive gold cable.
 
“I'd 'ave done better with it,” he .
 
“But you look very clever,” I said; and though divining with a child's cuteness that it was desired I should make a impression upon him, I hoped this would please him, the words were yet spontaneous.
 
He laughed , his whole body shaking like some huge jelly.
 
“Well, old Noel Hasluck's not exactly a fool,” he , “but I'd like myself better if I could talk about something else than business, and didn't drop my aitches. And so would my little gell.”
 
“You have a daughter?” asked my mother, with whom a child, as a bond of sympathy with the stranger took the place assigned by most women to disrespectful cooks and housemaids.
 
“I won't tell you about 'er. But I'll just bring 'er to see you now and then, ma'am, if you don't mind,” answered Mr. Hasluck. “She don't often meet gentle-folks, an' it'll do 'er good.”
 
My mother glanced across at my father, but the man, her question, replied to it himself.
 
“You needn't be afraid, ma'am, that she's anything like me,” he assured her quite good-temperedly; “nobody ever believes she's my daughter, except me and the old woman. She's a little lady, she is. Freak o' nature, I call it.”
 
“We shall be delighted,” explained my mother.
 
“Well, you will when you see 'er,” replied Mr. Hasluck, quite .
 
He pushed half-a-crown into my hand, my parents' susceptibilities with the easy good-temper of a man accustomed to have his way in all things.
 
“No squanderin' it on the 'eathen,” was his parting injunction as I left the room; “you spend that on a tradesman.”
 
It was the first money I ever remember having to spend, that half-crown of old Hasluck's; suggestions of the delights to be from a new pair of gloves for Sunday, from a Latin grammar, which would then be all my own, and so on, having hitherto displaced all less visions concerning the disposal of chance coins coming into my small hands. But on this occasion I was left free to decide for myself.
 
The anxiety it gave me! the long tossing hours in bed! the tramping of the bewildering streets! Even advice when asked for was denied me.
 
“You must learn to think for yourself,” said my father, who on the necessity of early acquiring sound and what he called “commercial .”
 
“No, dear,” said my mother, “Mr. Hasluck wanted you to spend it as you like. If I told you, that would be spending it as I liked. Your father and I want to see what you will do with it.”
 
The good little boys in the books bought presents or gave away to people in . For this I hated them with the the lower nature ever feels towards the higher. I consulted my aunt Fan.
 
“If somebody gave you half-a-crown,” I put it to her, “what would you buy with it?”
 
“Side-combs,” said my aunt; she was always losing or breaking her side-combs.
 
“But I mean if you were me,” I explained.
 
“Drat the child!” said my aunt; “how do I know what he wants if he don't know himself? Idiot!”
 
The shop windows into which I stared, my nose glued to the ! The things I asked the price of! The things I made up my mind to buy and then that I wouldn't buy! Even my patient mother began to show signs of . It was rapidly assuming the dimensions of a family curse, was old Hasluck's half-crown.
 
Then one day I made up my mind, and so ended the trouble. In the window of a small 's shop in a back street near, stood on view among taps, rolls of lead piping and , various squares of coloured glass, the sort of thing chiefly used, I believe, for doors and staircase windows. Some had stars in the centre, and others, more elaborate, were enriched with designs, severe but inoffensive. I purchased a dozen of these, the plumber, an affable man who appeared glad to see me, throwing in two extra out of sheer .
 
Why I bought them I did not know at the time, and I do not know now. My mother cried when she saw them. My father could get no further than: “But what are you going to do with them?” to which I was unable to reply. My aunt, alone, attempted comfort.
 
“If a person fancies coloured glass,” said my aunt, “then he's a fool not to buy coloured glass when he gets the chance. We haven't all the same tastes.”
 
In the end, I cut myself badly with them and consented to their being thrown into the dust-bin. But looking back, I have come to regard myself rather as the victim of Fate than of . Many folks have I met since, of Hasluck's half-crowns—many a man who has slapped his pocket and blessed the day he first met that “Napoleon of Finance,” as later he came to be known among his friends—but it ever ended so; coloured glass and cut fingers. Is it fairy gold that he and his kind fling round? It would seem to be.
 
Next time old Hasluck knocked at our front door a maid in cap and opened it to him, and this was but the beginning of change. New oilcloth in the passage. Lace curtains, such as in that neighbourhood were the hall-mark of the plutocrat, advertised our rising fortunes to the street, and greatest of all, at least to my eyes, my father's Sunday clothes came into weekday wear, new ones taking their place in the great wardrobe that hitherto had been the stronghold of our gentility; to which we had ever turned for comfort when rendered by contemplation of the weakness of our outer walls. “Seeing that everything was all right” is how my mother would explain it. She would lay the lilac silk upon the bed, fondly down its undulations, lingering lovingly over its deep frosted flounces of rich Honiton. Maybe she had entered the room weary looking and , but soon there would proceed from her a gentle humming as from some small winged thing when the sun first touches it and warms it, and sometimes by the time the Indian shawl, which could go through a wedding ring, but never would when it was wanted to, had been refolded and fastened again with the great cameo brooch, and the , like some fractious child, shaken and petted into good condition, she would be singing softly to herself, nodding her head to the words: which were generally to the effect that somebody was too old and somebody else too bold and another too cold, “so he wouldn't do for me;” and stepping lightly as though the burden of the years had fallen from her.
 
One evening—it was before the of this Hasluck—I remember climbing out of bed, for trouble was within me. Creatures, indescribable but heavy, had sat upon my chest, after which I had fallen downstairs, slowly and reasonably for the first few hundred flights, then with haste for the next million miles or so, until I found myself in the street with nothing on but my nightshirt. Personally, I was shocked, but nobody else seemed to mind, and I hailed a two-penny 'bus and climbed in. But when I tried to pay I found I hadn't any pockets, so I jumped out and ran away and the conductor came after me. My feet were like lead, and with every step he gained on me, till with a scream I made one effort and awoke.