My father had been well acquainted for many years with Mr. Fauntleroy, of the famous London banking1 firm of Marsh2, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham. Thinking it might be of some future service to me to make my position known to a great man in the commercial world, my father mentioned to his highly-respected friend that I was about to start in business for myself in a very small way, and with very little money. Mr. Fauntleroy received the intimation with a kind appearance of interest, and said that he would have his eye on me. I expected from this that he would wait to see if I could keep on my legs at starting, and that, if he found I succeeded pretty well, he would then help me forward if it lay in his power. As events turned out, he proved to be a far better friend than that, and he soon showed me that I had very much underrated the hearty3 and generous interest which he had felt in my welfare from the first.
While I was still fighting with the difficulties of setting up my office, and recommending myself to my connection, and so forth4, I got a message from Mr. Fauntleroy telling me to call on him, at the banking-house, the first time I was passing that way. As you may easily imagine, I contrived5 to be passing that way on a particularly early occasion, and, on presenting myself at the bank, I was shown at once into Mr. Fauntleroy’s private room.
He was as pleasant a man to speak to as ever I met with — bright, and gay, and companionable in his manner — with a sort of easy, hearty, jovial6 bluntness about him that attracted everybody. The clerks all liked him — and that is something to say of a partner in a banking-house, I can tell you!
“Well, young Trowbridge,” says he, giving his papers on the table a brisk push away from him, “so you are going to set up in business for yourself, are you? I have a great regard for your father, and a great wish to see you succeed. Have you started yet? No? Just on the point of beginning, eh? Very good. You will have your difficulties, my friend, and I mean to smooth one of them away for you at the outset. A word of advice for your private ear — Bank with us.”
“You are very kind, sir,” I answered, “and I should ask nothing better than to profit by your suggestion, if I could. But my expenses are heavy at starting, and when they are all paid I am afraid I shall have very little left to put by for the first year. I doubt if I shall be able to muster7 much more than three hundred pounds of surplus cash in the world after paying what I must pay before I set up my office, and I should be ashamed to trouble your house, sir, to open an account for such a trifle as that.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” says Mr. Fauntleroy. “Are you a banker? What business have you to offer an opinion on the matter? Do as I tell you — leave it to me — bank with us — and draw for what you like. Stop! I haven’t done yet. When you open the account, speak to the head cashier. Perhaps you may find he has got something to tell you. There! there! go away — don’t interrupt me — good-by — God bless you!”
That was his way — ah! poor fellow, that was his way.
I went to the head cashier the next morning when I opened my little modicum8 of an account. He had received orders to pay my drafts without reference to my balance. My checks, when I had overdrawn9, were to be privately10 shown to Mr. Fauntleroy. Do many young men who start in business find their prosperous superiors ready to help them in that way?
Well, I got on — got on very fairly and steadily11, being careful not to venture out of my depth, and not to forget that small beginnings may lead in time to great ends. A prospect12 of one of those great ends — great, I mean, to such a small trader as I was at that period — showed itself to me when I had been some little time in business. In plain terms, I had a chance of joining in a first-rate transaction, which would give me profit, and position, and everything I wanted, provided I could qualify myself for engaging in it by getting good security beforehand for a very large amount.
In this emergency, I thought of my kind friend, Mr. Fauntleroy, and went to the bank, and saw him once more in his private room.
There he was at the same table, with the same heaps of papers about him, and the same hearty, easy way of speaking his mind to you at once, in the fewest possible words. I explained the business I came upon with some little hesitation13 and nervousness, for I was afraid he might think I was taking an unfair advantage of his former kindness to me. When I had done, he just nodded his head, snatched up a blank sheet of paper, scribbled14 a few lines on it in his rapid way, handed the writing to me, and pushed me out of the room by the two shoulders before I could say a single word. I looked at the paper in the outer office. It was my security from the great banking-house for the whole amount, and for more, if more was wanted.
I could not express my gratitude15 then, and I don’t know that I can describe it now. I can only say that it has outlived the crime, the disgrace, and the awful death on the scaffold. I am grieved to speak of that death at all; but I have no other alternative. The course of my story must now lead me straight on to the later time, and to the terrible discovery which exposed my benefactor16 and my friend to all England as the forger17 Fauntleroy.
I must ask you to suppose a lapse18 of some time after the occurrence of the events that I have just been relating. During this interval19, thanks to the kind assistance I had received at the outset, my position as a man of business had greatly improved. Imagine me now, if you please, on the high road to prosperity, with good large offices and a respectable staff of clerks, and picture me to yourselves sitting alone in my private room between four and five o’clock on a certain Saturday afternoon.
All my letters had been written, all the people who had appointments with me had been received. I was looking carelessly over the newspaper, and thinking about going home, when one of my clerks came in, and said that a stranger wished to see me immediately on very important business.
“Did he mention his name?” I inquired.
“No, sir.”
“Did you not ask him for it?”
“Yes, sir. And he said you would be none the wiser if he told me what it was.”
“Does he look like a begging-letter writer?”
“He looks a little shabby, sir, but he doesn’t talk at all like a begging-letter writer. He spoke21 sharp and decided22, sir, and said it was in your interests that he came, and that you would deeply regret it afterward23 if you refused to see him.”
“He said that, did he? Show him in at once, then.”
He was shown in immediately: a middling-sized man, with a sharp, unwholesome-looking face, and with a flippant, reckless manner, dressed in a style of shabby smartness, eying me with a bold look, and not so overburdened with politeness as to trouble himself about taking off his hat when he came in. I had never seen him before in my life, and I could not form the slightest conjecture24 from his appearance to guide me toward guessing his position in the world. He was not a gentleman, evidently; but as to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite downward gradations of vagabond existence in London, that was a mystery which I was totally incompetent25 to solve.
“Is your name Trowbridge?” he began.
“Yes,” I answered, dryly enough.
“Do you bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Answer my question, and you will know.”
“Very well, I do bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham — and what then?”
“Draw out every farthing of balance you have got before the bank closes at five to-day.”
I stared at him in speechless amazement26. The words, for an instant, absolutely petrified27 me.
“Stare as much as you like,” he proceeded, coolly, “I mean what I say. Look at your clock there. In twenty minutes it will strike five, and the bank will be shut. Draw out every farthing, I tell you again, and look sharp about it.”
“Draw out my money!” I exclaimed, partially28 recovering myself. “Are you in your right senses? Do you know that the firm I bank with represents one of the first houses in the world? What do you mean — you, who are a total stranger to me — by taking this extraordinary interest in my affairs? If you want me to act on your advice, why don’t you explain yourself?”
“I have explained myself. Act on my advice or not, just as you like. It doesn’t matter to me. I have done what I promised, and there’s an end of it.”
He turned to the door. The minute-hand of the clock was getting on from the twenty minutes to the quarter.
“Done what you promised?” I repeated, getting up to stop him.
“Yes,” he said, with his hand on the lock. “I have given my message. Whatever happens, remember that. Good-afternoon.”
He was gone before I could speak again.
I tried to call after him, but my speech suddenly failed me. It was very foolish, it was very unaccountable, but there was something in the man’s last words which had more than half frightened me.
I looked at the clock. The minute-hand was on the quarter.
My office was just far enough from the bank to make it necessary for me to decide on the instant. If I had had time to think, I am perfectly29 certain that I should not have profited by the extraordinary warning that had just been addressed to me. The suspicious appearance and manners of the stranger; the outrageous30 improbability of the inference against the credit of the bank toward which his words pointed31; the chance that some underhand attempt was being made, by some enemy of mine, to frighten me into embroiling32 myself with one of my best friends, through showing an ignorant distrust of the firm with which he was associated as partner — all these considerations would unquestionably have occurred to me if I could have found time for reflection; and, as a necessary consequence, not one farthing of my balance would have been taken from the keeping of the bank on that memorable33 day.
As it was, I had just time enough to act, and not a spare moment for thinking. Some heavy payments made at the beginning of the week had so far decreased my balance that the sum to my credit in the banking-book barely reached fifteen hundred pounds. I snatched up my check-book, wrote a draft for the whole amount, and ordered one of my clerks to run to the bank and get it cashed before the doors closed. What impulse urged me on, except the blind impulse of hurry and bewilderment, I can’t say. I acted mechanically, under the influence of the vague inexplicable34 fear which the man’s extraordinary parting words had aroused in me, without stopping to analyze35 my own sensations — almost without knowing what I was about. In three minutes from the time when the stranger had closed my door the clerk had started for the bank, and I was alone again in my room, with my hands as cold as ice and my head all in a whirl.
I did not recover my control over myself until the clerk came back with the notes in his hand. He had just got to the bank in the nick of time. As the cash for my draft was handed to him over the counter, the clock struck five, and he heard the order given to close the doors.
When I had counted the bank-notes and had locked them up in the safe, my better sense seemed to come back to me on a sudden. Never have I reproached myself before or since as I reproached myself at that moment. What sort of return had I made for Mr. Fauntleroy’s fatherly kindness to me? I had insulted him by the meanest, the grossest distrust of the honor and the credit of his house, and that on the word of an absolute stranger, of a vagabond, if ever there was one yet. It was madness — downright madness in any man to have acted as I had done. I could not account for my own inconceivably thoughtless proceeding36. I could hardly believe in it myself. I opened the safe and looked at the bank-notes again. I locked it once more, and flung the key down on the table in a fury of vexation against myself. There the money was, upbraiding37 me with my own inconceivable folly38, telling me in the plainest terms that I had risked depriving myself of my best and kindest friend henceforth and forever.
It was necessary to do something at once toward making all the atonement that lay in my power. I felt that, as soon as I began to cool down a little. There was but one plain, straight-forward way left now out of the scrape in which I had been mad enough to involve myself. I took my hat, and, without stopping an instant to hesitate, hurried off to the bank to make a clean breast of it to Mr. Fauntleroy.
When I knocked at the private door and asked for him, I was told that he had not been at the bank for the last two days. One of the other partners was there, however, and was working at that moment in his own room.
I sent in my name at once, and asked to see him. He and I were little better than strangers to each other, and the interview was likely to be, on that account, unspeakably embarrassing and humiliating on my side. Still, I could not go home. I could not endure the inaction of the next day, the Sunday, without having done my best on the spot to repair the error into which my own folly had led me. Uncomfortable as I felt at the prospect of the approaching interview, I should have been far more uneasy in my mind if the partner had declined to see me.
To my relief, the bank porter returned with a message requesting me to walk in.
What particular form my explanations and apologies took when I tried to offer them is more than I can tell now. I was so confused and distressed39 that I hardly knew what I was talking about at the time. The one circumstance which I remember clearly is that I was ashamed to refer to my interview with the strange man, and that I tried to account for my sudden withdrawal40 of my balance by referring it to some inexplicable panic, caused by mischievous41 reports which I was unable to trace to their source, and which, for anything I knew to the contrary, might, after all, have been only started in jest. Greatly to my surprise, the partner did not seem to notice the lamentable42 lameness43 of my excuses, and did not additionally confuse me by asking any questions. A weary, absent look, which I had observed on his face when I came in, remained on it while I was speaking. It seemed to be an effort to him even to keep up the appearance of listening to me; and when, at last, I fairly broke down in the middle of a sentence, and gave up the hope of getting any further, all the answer he gave me was comprised in these few civil commonplace words:
“Never mind, Mr. Trowbridge; pray don’t think of apologizing. We are all liable to make mistakes. Say nothing more about it, and bring the money back on Monday if you still honor us with your confidence.”
He looked down at his papers as if he was anxious to be alone again, and I had no alternative, of course, but to take my leave immediately. I went home, feeling a little easier in my mind now that I had paved the way for making the best practical atonement in my power by bringing my balance back the first thing on Monday morning. Still, I passed a weary day on Sunday, reflecting, sadly enough, that I had not yet made my peace with Mr. Fauntleroy. My anxiety to set myself right with my generous friend was so intense that I risked intruding44 myself on his privacy by calling at his town residence on the Sunday. He was not there, and his servant could tell me nothing of his whereabouts. There was no help for it now but to wait till his weekday duties brought him back to the bank.
I went to business on Monday morning half an hour earlier than usual, so great was my impatience45 to restore the amount of that unlucky draft to my account as soon as possible after the bank opened.
On entering my office, I stopped with a startled feeling just inside the door. Something serious had happened. The clerks, instead of being at their desks as usual, were all huddled46 together in a group, talking to each other with blank faces. When they saw me, they fell back behind my managing man, who stepped forward with a circular in his hand.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” he said.
“No. What is it?”
He handed me the circular. My heart gave one violent throb47 the instant I looked at it. I felt myself turn pale; I felt my knees trembling under me.
Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham had stopped payment.
“The circular has not been issued more than half an hour,” continued my managing clerk. “I have just come from the bank, sir. The doors are shut; there is no doubt about it. Marsh & Company have stopped this morning.”
I hardly heard him; I hardly knew who was talking to me. My strange visitor of the Saturday had taken instant possession of all my thoughts, and his words of warning seemed to be sounding once more in my ears. This man had known the true condition of the bank when not another soul outside the doors was aware of it! The last draft paid across the counter of that ruined house, when the doors closed on Saturday, was the draft that I had so bitterly reproached myself for drawing; the one balance saved from the wreck48 was my balance. Where had the stranger got the information that had saved me? and why had he brought it to my ears?
I was still groping, like a man in the dark, for an answer to those two questions — I was still bewildered by the unfathomable mystery of doubt into which they had plunged49 me — when the discovery of the stopping of the bank was followed almost immediately by a second shock, far more dreadful, far heavier to bear, so far as I was concerned, than the first.
While I and my clerks were still discussing the failure of the firm, two mercantile men, who were friends of mine, ran into the office, and overwhelmed us with the news that one of the partners had been arrested for forgery51. Never shall I forget the terrible Monday morning when those tidings reached me, and when I knew that the partner was Mr. Fauntleroy.
I was true to him — I can honestly say I was true to my belief in my generous friend — when that fearful news reached me. My fellow-merchants had got all the particulars of the arrest. They told me that two of Mr. Fauntleroy’s fellow-trustees had come up to London to make arrangements about selling out some stock. On inquiring for Mr. Fauntleroy at the banking-house, they had been informed that he was not there; and, after leaving a message for him, they had gone into the City to make an appointment with their stockbroker52 for a future day, when their fellow-trustee might be able to attend. The stock-broker volunteered to make certain business inquiries53 on the spot, with a view to saving as much time as possible, and left them at his office to await his return. He came back, looking very much amazed, with the information that the stock had been sold out down to the last five hundred pounds. The affair was instantly investigated; the document authorizing54 the selling out was produced; and the two trustees saw on it, side by side with Mr. Fauntleroy’s signature, the forged signatures of their own names. This happened on the Friday, and the trustees, without losing a moment, sent the officers of justice in pursuit of Mr. Fauntleroy. He was arrested, brought up before the magistrate55, and remanded on the Saturday. On the Monday I heard from my friends the particulars which I have just narrated56.
But the events of that one morning were not destined57 to end even yet. I had discovered the failure of the bank and the arrest of Mr. Fauntleroy. I was next to be enlightened, in the strangest and the saddest manner, on the difficult question of his innocence58 or his guilt59.
Before my friends had left my office — before I had exhausted60 the arguments which my gratitude rather than my reason suggested to me in favor of the unhappy prisoner — a note, marked immediate20, was placed in my hands, which silenced me the instant I looked at it. It was written from the prison by Mr. Fauntleroy, and it contained two lines only, entreating61 me to apply for the necessary order, and to go and see him immediately.
I shall not attempt to describe the flutter of expectation, the strange mixture of dread50 and hope that agitated62 me when I recognized his handwriting, and discovered what it was that he desired me to do. I obtained the order and went to the prison. The authorities, knowing the dreadful situation in which he stood, were afraid of his attempting to destroy himself, and had set two men to watch him. One came out as they opened his cell door. The other, who was bound not to leave him, very delicately and considerately affected63 to be looking out of window the moment I was shown in.
He was sitting on the side of his bed, with his head drooping64 and his hands hanging listlessly over his knees when I first caught sight of him. At the sound of my approach he started to his feet, and, without speaking a word, flung both his arms round my neck.
My heart swelled65 up.
“Tell me it’s not true, sir! For God’s sake, tell me it’s not true!” was all I could say to him.
He never answered — oh me! he never answered, and he turned away his face.
There was one dreadful moment of silence. He still held his arms round my neck, and on a sudden he put his lips close to my ear.
“Did you get your money out?” he whispered. “Were you in time on Saturday afternoon?”
I broke free from him in the astonishment66 of hearing those words.
“What!” I cried out loud, forgetting the third person at the window. “That man who brought the message —”
“Hush!” he said, putting his hand on my lips. “There was no better man to be found, after the officers had taken me — I know no more about him than you do — I paid him well as a chance messenger, and risked his cheating me of his errand.”
“You sent him, then!”
“I sent him.”
My story is over, gentlemen. There is no need for me to tell you that Mr. Fauntleroy was found guilty, and that he died by the hangman’s hand. It was in my power to soothe67 his last moments in this world by taking on myself the arrangement of some of his private affairs, which, while they remained unsettled, weighed heavily on his mind. They had no connection with the crimes he had committed, so I could do him the last little service he was ever to accept at my hands with a clear conscience.
I say nothing in defense68 of his character — nothing in palliation of the offense69 for which he suffered. But I cannot forget that in the time of his most fearful extremity70, when the strong arm of the law had already seized him, he thought of the young man whose humble71 fortunes he had helped to build; whose heartfelt gratitude he had fairly won; whose simple faith he was resolved never to betray. I leave it to greater intellects than mine to reconcile the anomaly of his reckless falsehood toward others and his steadfast72 truth toward me. It is as certain as that we sit here that one of Fauntleroy’s last efforts in this world was the effort he made to preserve me from being a loser by the trust that I had placed in him. There is the secret of my strange tenderness for the memory of a felon73; that is why the word villain74 does somehow still grate on my heart when I hear it associated with the name — the disgraced name, I grant you — of the forger Fauntleroy. Pass the bottles, young gentlemen, and pardon a man of the old school for having so long interrupted your conversation with a story of the old time.
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1
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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embroiling
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| v.使（自己或他人）卷入纠纷( embroil的现在分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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inexplicable
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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folly
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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49
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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51
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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52
stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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54
authorizing
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| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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58
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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59
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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72
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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73
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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