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VOL. 11.
SECOND LOVE-
For :i wave of soft hair on her temple,
For an echo that lives in her tone,
For a gleam of memorial color
In eyes that look love to my own ;
For a something that fades while I watch
it,
Half fashioned of doubt and half clear ;
For nothing my phrases may picture,
She is dear to my life, she is dear !
And yet do I wrong not the spirit
That gives from its costliest store
With tender devotion, receiving
Calm gratitude’s guerdon—ho more.
Not alone for the vague, fleeting likeness
To a face of the past without peer.
But for that which is hers and hers only,
She is.dear to my life, she is dear !
I have told her my desolate story,
And felt, while I told it there stole
Compassionate sorrow to waken
The depihs of her beautiful soul.
I knew she could pity ; I knew not
Her power to strengthen and cheer.
Fure bringer of heavenly wisdom,
6he is dear to iny life, she is dear !
Having learned how my heart’s warmest
fervor
Was wasted in tears ere we met,
She ses ks but to comfort its loneness
And brighten its gloom of regret.
She asks no reward of sweet service,
Unfaltering year after year.
Divinest of saintly consolers,
She is dear to my life, she is dear!
[ Overland Mothly.
Fauntleroy, the Forger.
BY WILKIE COLLINS.
What I am going to tell you, gentle
men, happened when I was a very young
man, and when I was just setting up in
business on my own account.
My father had been well acquainted
for many years with Mr. Fauntleroy, of
the famous London banking firm of
Marsh, St racy, Fauntleroy & Graham
Thinking it might be of some future ser
vice to me to. make my position known
to a great man in the commercial world,
my father mentioned to his highly re
spected 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 information with
a kind appearance of interest, and said
that he would have his eye on me. I ex
pected from this that he would wait to
sec if 1 could keep on my feet at start
ing, and that if he found I succeeded
pretty well, he would then help me for
ward it it lay in his power. As events
turned out, he proved to be a fav better
friend than that, and he soon showed me
that I had very much underrated the
hearty 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 connection, &c.,
1 got a message from Mr. Fauntleroy
telling me to call on him, at the banking
house the first time I was passing that
v ay. As you may easily imagine, I con
nived to be passing that way on a par
ticular early occasion, and on presenting
myself at the bank, I was shown at once
into Mr Fauntleroy’s private room.
lie was as plea sant a man to speak to
a> over I met with—bright, and gay, and
companionable in his manner—with a
•"mt of easy, hearty, jovial bluntness
ahotp him that attracted everybody,
lhe clerks all liked him—and that Is
something to say of a partner in a bank
iug ouse, I can tell you !
/;Well, young Towbridge,” says he,
g virig his papers on the table a brisk
push away from him, “so you are going to
* i up in business for yourself, are you ?
1 -uvea great regard for your father,
J 1 1 a great wish to see you succeed!
Have you started- yet ? No? Just on
the point of beginning, oh ? Very good*
You will have your difficulties, my friend’
and I mean to smoothe one of them away
from you at the outset. A word of ;’id
vice for your private ear—Bank with us.
“You are very kind, sir,” I answered,
“and I should ask nothing better than t,o
profit by your suggestion, if I could.
But my expenses are heavy T at starting,
and when they are all paid I am afraid I
shall have very little to put by for the
first year. I doubt if I shall be able to
muster much more than three hundred
pounds of surplus cash in the world after
paying what I mast pay before setting up
my office, and I should be ashamed to
trouble your house, sir, to open an ac
count for such & trifle as that/’
“.Stuff and nonsense !” says Mi*. Faunt
leroy. “Are you a banker ? What busi
ness 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 will
find that lie has got something to tell
you. There! there ! go away—don’t
interrupt me—good bye—God bless
youI”
That was his way—ah ! pDor fellow,
that was his way.
I went to the head cashier the next
morning when I opened my little modi
cum of an account. He had received
orders to pay my drafts without reference
to my balance. My checks, when I had
overdrawn, were to be privately shown to
Mr. Fauntleroy. Do many young men
who start in business find their prosper
ous superiors ready to help them in that
way ?
Well, I got on —got on very fairly and
steadily, being careful not to venture out
of my depth, and not to forget that small
beginnings may lead in times to great
ends. A prespeet 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 time
in business. In plain terms, I had a
chance of joining in a first-rate connec
tion, which would give me profit and
position, and everything I wanted, pro
vided I could qualify myself for engaging
in it by getting good security before and
to a large amount.
In this emergency, I thought of my
kind friend, Mr. Fauntleroy, and went to
the blank, 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 possi
ble words. I explained the business I
came upon with some little hesitation and
nervousness, for I was afraid lie might
think I was taking an unfair advantage of
his former business advice tome. When I
had done, he just nodded his head, snatch
ed up a blank sheet of paper, scribbled 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 that great hanking house
for the whole amount, and for more, if
more was wanted.
I could not express my gratitude then,
and I don’t know that I can describe it
now. .1 can only say that it lias outlived
the- crime, the disgrace and the awful
death on the scaffold. lam grieved to
speak of that death at all; but l have no
other alternative. The' course of my story
must now lead me straight on to the lat
ter time, and to the terrible discovery
which exposed my benefactor and my
friend to all England as the forger Faunt
ler: >y.
I must ask you to suppose a lapse of
some tune alter the occurrence of the
events that I have just been relating.
During this interval, 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
AUGUSTA, GA., JANUAEY 22, 1870.
you please, on the high road to prosperi
ty, with good large offices and a respccta-!
ble staff of clerks, and picture me to
yourselves sitting alone in my private
room, between four and five o’clock ou 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 think
ing 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 in
quired.
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask him for it ?”
“Yes, sir. And he said you would he
none the wiser if he told me what it
was.”
“Does lie look like a begging letter
writer ?”
“He spoke sharp and decided, sir, and
said it was in your interest that he came,-
ancl that you would deeply regret it after
ward if you refused to see him.”
“He said that, did he ? Show him in
at once, then.”
He was shown in immediately ; a mid
dling-sized man, with a sharp, unwhole
some-looking face, and with a flippant,
reckless manner, dressed in a style of
shabby smartness, eyeing 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 iff my lite, and
l could not form the slightest conjecture
from his appearance toward guessing his
position in tiie world. lie was not a gen
tleman, evidently ; but as to fixing his
whereabouts in the infinite downward
gradation of vagabond existence in Lon -
don, that \fas a mystery which I was
totally incompetent to solve.
“Is your name Trowbridge?” he
began.
“Yes,” I answered, drily* enough.
“Do you bank with Marsh, Stracy,
Fauntleroy & Graham?”
“Why do you ask ?”
“Answer my question and yen will
know.”
“Very well, I do hank with Marsh,
Stracy, Fauntleroy & Giaham, and what
then ?”
“Draw out every farthing of balance
you have got before the hank closes at
five to-day.”
1 stared at him in speechless amaze
ment. The words, for an instant, abso
lutely petrified me.
“Stare as much as you like,” he pro
ceeded, cooly, “I mean what I say. Look
at your cl#ck there. In twenty minutes
it will strike five, and the hank will be
shut. Draw out every farthing, I tell
you again, and look sharp about it ”
“Draw out my money !” I exclaimed,
partially recovering myself. “Are you
in your right senses ? Do you kuow that
the firm 1 hank 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 in
terest in my affairs ? If y u want me to
act on your advice, wh.'mfon’t you ex
plain yourself ?”
“I have explained myself. Act on my
advice or not, just as you like. It don’t
matter to me. I have done what I prom
ised, and there’s an end of it.”
He turned to the door. The minute
hand of the clock was gettiug on from
the twenty minutes to the quarter.
“Done what you promised,” I repeat
ed, getting up to stop him.
“Yes,” he said, with his hand on the
lock. “I have given my message. What
ever happens, remember that. Good
afternoon.”
He was gone before I could speak
again.
I tried to call after him, mt my speech
suddenly failed me. It w.s very fool
ish, it was very unaccountable, hut there
was something in the mna 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 hank to make it necessary for me to
decide on the instant. If I had had time
to thiuk, I am perfectly certain that I
should not have prefitted by the extraor
dinary warning that had just bceu ad
dressed to me. The suspicious appear
ance and manners of the stranger ; the
outrageous improbability of the inference
against the credit of the bank, toward
which his words pointed ; the chance that
some underhand attempt was being made,
by some enemy of mine, to frighten me
into embroiling myself with one of my
best triends, through showing an ignorant
distrust of the firm with which he was
associated as partner—all these c nisider
ations would unquestionably have oc
curred to me it I could have had time for
reflection; and, as a necessary oonse
quence, not one farthing of my balance
would have been taken from the keeping
of the bank on that memorable day.
As it was, I had just time enough to
act, and not a spare moment for thinking.
Some h avy payments made at the be
ginning of the week had so far decreased
my balance that the sum to 1113* credit in
the hanking book barely reached fifteen
hundred pounds.
I snatched up my check book, wrote a
draft for the whole amount, and told one
of my clerks to run to the bank and get
it cashed before the door 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, inexplicable
fear which the man’s extraordinary part
ing words had aroused in me, without
stopping to analyze my own sensations
—almost without knowing what I was
about. Iu three minutes from the time
when the stranger had closed my door the
clerk had started for the hank, and I was
alone again in my room, with my hands
as cold as ice and m3 7 head all in a whirl.
I did not recover my control over my
self until the clerk came back with the
notes in his hand. He had just got to
the hank 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 hank notes
and had locked them up iu the safe, my
b(*tter sense seemed to come back to me
on a suddeu. Never have I reproached
myself before and 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 insult
ed him by the meanest, the grossest dis
trust of the honor and the credit of his
house, and that ou the word of uu abso
lute stranger, of a vagabond, if ever
there was one yet. It was mad
ness—downright madness iu auy
man to have acted as [ had
done, I could hardly believe in it
myself. I opened the safe and looked
at the hank notes again. I locked it once
more, and flung the key down on the
table in a fury of vexation against iny
self. There the money 7 was, upbraiding
me with my own inconceivable folly, tell
ing me in the plainest terms that 1 had
risked depriving myself of my best and
kindest friend henceforth and forever.
It was necessary 7 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, straightforward
way 7 now left to get out of the scrape in
which I had been mad enough to involve
myself, I took my hat, and, without stop
ping an instant to hesitate, hurried off to
the hank 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
clays. 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 in
terview was likely to be, on that account,
unspeakably embarrassing and humiliat
ing on my side. Still, I could not
go home, I could not endure the in
action 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 de
clined 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 distressed that I hardly
knew what I was talking about at the
time. The one circumstance that I re
member clearly is that I was ashamed to
refer to my interview with the strange
man, and that I tried to account for my
sudden withdrawal of my balance by re
ferring it to some inexplicable panic,
caused by 7 mischievous reports which I
was unable to trace to their source, and
which, for anything l knew to the contra
ry, might, after all, have been started
only in jest.
Greatly to my surprise, the partner did
not seem to notice the lamentable lame
ness of my excuses, and did not addition
ally 7 confuse me by asking any questions.
A weary absent look, which I had ob
served on his face when I came in, re
mained on it while I was speaking. It
seemed to he an effort to him even to
keep up the appearance of listening to
me ; and when I fairly broke down in the
middle of a sentence, and gave up the
hope of getting any further, all the au
swer he gave me was comprised in these
lew civil commonplace words :
“Never nmid, Mr. Trowbridge ; pray
don’t thiuk 01 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 he 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 makimr 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 intruding
myself on his privacy by calling at his
town residence on Sunday. He was not
there, and his servants could toll me
nothing of his whereabouts. There was
no help for it now, hut to wait tiii his
week-day 7 duties brought him hack to
the hank.
I went to business on Monday morning
half an hour earlier than usual, so great
was my impatience to restore the amount
of that unlucky draft to iny 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
uaual, were all huddled together in a
group, talking to each other with blank
faces. When they saw me, they fell
hack behind my managing man, who
stepped forward with a circular in his
hand.
“Have you h and the news, sir?” he
sad.
“No ; what is it. ?”
lie handed me the circular. My heart
gave one violent throb the instant [ look
ed at it. I felt myself lurn pale; I felt
iny knees trembling under me.
No. 45"