“Then, list, ingenuous youth....
And once forego your joy,
For your 176 instruction I display
The life of Fauntleroy.”
The Dirge of Fauntleroy, James Usher, 1824.
In the year 1792—not one of the least disastrous in our annals of commerce—a small party of capitalists established a private bank under the name of Marsh, Sibbald & Company of Berners Street. The chief promoters—William Marsh, a naval agent, and James Sibbald of Sittwood Park, Berkshire, a retired official of Company John—were gentlemen of substance and position; while their managing partner, William Fauntleroy (previously employed at the famous house of Barclay), was a man of ability and business experience. Four years later, a younger son of Sir Edward Stracey, a Norfolk baronet, who married eventually the niece of Sir James Sibbald, was admitted into the firm.
HENRY FAUNTLEROY.
Although never a bank of great resources, it appears to have made a fair return to its proprietors, and because of its connection with two baronets—one of whom became Sheriff of his county—it was regarded as a house of repute. In the spring of 1807 the firm received a severe blow through the death, when only in his fifty-eighth year, of the active partner, William Fauntleroy, in whom his colleagues placed implicit trust. Luckily, however, it was possible to fill his place, for his second son Henry, who had been employed as a clerk for seven years, although only twenty-two, was fit and eager for the post. None of the members of the firm were able to devote much attention to their bank, and thus, by a strange chance, the sole control was left in the hands of young Fauntleroy.
A remarkable man in every respect, this youthful manager, who carried with ease the burden of a great business on his shoulders. During the second decade of last century no figure was better known to those familiar with the west end of Oxford Street. Neat and elegant as Brummell, grave and industrious as Henry Addington, he seemed a model for all young men of commerce. Each morning at the same hour, the front door of No. 7 Berners Street, where he lived with his mother and sister, was thrown open, and the banker would step briskly into the adjoining premises—the counting-house of Messrs Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham. For he was a partner, also, as well as absolute manager, this solemn young gentleman whose air of ponderous respectability won the confidence of all.
At first sight, his cleanly-chiselled features seemed to express merely gentleness and simplicity, but a second glance would reveal a picture of resolution and strength. In fact, the massive brow, the broad cheekbones, and the firm, bold contour of the chin suggested a strange likeness—one that he sought to emphasise by the close-cropped hair made to droop over his forehead. It was his foible, this belief that he bore a resemblance to the great Buonaparte—whose bust adorned his mantelpiece—and the final catastrophe that overwhelmed him should discourage any latter-day egoist who prides himself upon a similar likeness.
Springing from an industrious Nonconformist stock (for his father had been the architect of his own fortunes, while his elder brother William, who fell a victim to consumption at an early age, was a youth full of the promise of genius), the temperament of Henry Fauntleroy appears to have been as complex a piece of mechanism as Nature ever enclosed within a human tenement. The love of toil, and an indomitable perseverance, seemed to be the guiding principles of his life. Not only did his fine courage never waver amidst the terrors of the financial tempest, through which he stood at the helm of his frail bark, but he gave no sign to his colleagues of the misgivings that must have lurked within his mind. For commerce had fallen upon evil days. On every side he beheld the crash and wreckage of his fellows, but, inspired by the confidence which only the knowledge of power can bestow, he resolved to continue his struggle against the storm. With a brain capable of grappling with huge balance-sheets, an almost superhuman dexterity in figures being his natural gift, the work of three men was the daily task of this Napoleon of commerce. Although the members of his firm were compelled to dive deeply into their pockets during these hazardous years, to meet losses occasioned by the failure of clients engaged in building speculations, the Berners Street Bank was handled so skilfully that it managed to weather the storm.
In spite of his vast abilities, there was nothing of bombast in Fauntleroy’s nature, nor did external evidence show that he was engaged in deadly warfare against the unpropitious fates. A gentle, unassuming man, with a quiet charm of address, he won universal regard from all with whom he came into contact. The gift of friendship, the infectious knack of social intercourse, was part of his character. Naturally, the circle in which he moved was composed of persons of refinement and, in some cases, of eminence in the commercial world. While his hand was ever open to the cry of distress, his board always had a place for those who had gained his esteem. All the leisure he could snatch seemed devoted to simple pleasures—a choice little dinner to a few kindred spirits, a holiday at his suburban villa, or a week-end visit to his house in Brighton. Though his earnest, florid face might be seen often beneath the hood of his smart cabriolet, this carriage was used principally in journeys between Berners Street and the City. In short, few business men in London were held in greater respect than this hard-working young banker, who was so like the Emperor Napoleon.
Yet there was another side to the picture. Although ostensibly he lived this simple and strenuous existence, a few bosom companions knew him in another guise. Unknown to the world, those week-end parties at his villa in the suburbs were tainted and ungodly. The sweet girl who sat at the head of his table as mistress of his home had lost her maiden innocence while her fresh young beauty was in its bud, lured by the sensuous Fauntleroy almost from school. All her pretty friends belonged to the same frail sisterhood, Cyprians beyond question, though modest perhaps in demeanour and speech. And with these ‘Kates and Sues’ of the town came Fauntleroy’s intimates, ‘Toms and Jerries’ unmistakably, though possibly only in travesty, becoming sober men once more in business hours.