Untitled

Otago Witness, Issue 653, 4 June 1864, Page 4

BRANCHER.

[From Ail The Year Round.]

What pleasure a City man feels when he turn life back on the Stock Exchange, on the street o the Lombards, or on the street of the Threads Jfaedle, and sets bis face towards the country an< borne. What still greater pleasure he feels whei the bus drops him at hfe cottage, and, as he click: the garden gate behind him, he hears his childrei •o'ming tearing along the hall to meetbim when h< opens the door. It was that pleasure which mad< my heart beat faster, one June evening^ ten yean ago, when I alighted from the bus at the comei •four lane at Bybridge (where I had taken £ •ouatry-house ior the summer), and pushed on eagerly for my own place. The great dark elms seemed all in a flutter oi pleasure at my arrival. The garden flowers bent their heads gravely towards me. I loved the very gravel that crisped under my feet. Howvel■vety the turf looked, and it was all mine for two months longer ! The moment I touched the knocker, out poured Lacy and the children. Willy, Ned, and Charley, took me by storm. ' " He is come," they all cried in one breath. "He ? who is He ? The earthquake ! "Why, don't you know, papa ? The gentleman next door," said Willy. "Why, my dear, our next door neighbor, at Wfllow Cottage," said my wife, with grave reproof. "Ha furniture arrived this morning. ,He and his wife, and the children, came in grand style. He seems a most respectahle man." •' You mean a most rich man, Lucy." Now, don't be naughty and sarcastic." I ceased to bo naughty and sarcastic. And such a dear little Shetland pony," said Willy. « We're going to have a ride on it ton«rrow." How rapidly children make acquaintance \ Mext morning I had resolved to have a holiday, *jp a J °f gardening, fishing, and fun with the •Mldren. The children were in raptures ; Lucy was quietly pleased after her own dear style. The lawn of our cottags doped down to the OBamet, while at the back of the honse our long «trip of garden was separated by a paling and a laurel shrubbery from the'garden of our newlyarrived neighbor. Willy had had his ride on the HS^'Jlj camerac ' n & hack delighted, and laden who red and white sugar-plums, Mr Brancher lad been so kind. Charley and Ned grew enTiousof the, march WiHy had stolen over our neighbor's affections. My wife, like all mothers, ■was won by an attention paid to her child : it was an attention paid to herself. ' "I am sure," she said, "he's a dear kind creature." And I beganto think we were very lacky in getting such a neighbor. After breakfast I was busy at work in the garden, nailing up a rather wayward Tine, and ringing over my occupation the serenade song from Don Juan, when I heard a rustling hi the towels, and a florid good-natured face thrust itself between the shining green leaves. I trust, sir, that your little boy enjoyed his "Extremely," I said, stepping up to the palings in my best manner. " and I have to thank you <7£ ur kindneßs in giving him that pleasure." » "Don't mention it, my dear sir," said Mr Braneher. "I love children. I am a father myself. I only thought it right to come and apologise to you for offering your brave little fellow a ride without your permission, before we were even introduced to each other. " 'I W"» delighted to 'make your acquaintance" I Baid. Allow roe to shake hands with you." " I see you are, like myself, fond of gardening," aaid the worthy man. "Hah! what those poor people in towns lose !" At that moment a pleasant female voice called "Henry! Henry!" " Pardon me," said Mr Brancher, " for there's my wife calling me to set the children their lessons. Au revoir. I trust we shall often meet." I expressed the same wish, and he disappeared. An hour or two afterwards, a burst of laughter in the next garden disturbed me as I sat reading at my study window. Now, my study was a firstfloor room, commanding both my own garden and my neighbor's. I rose and looked out. Cnarmfaffpicture of rural domestic pleasure .' There wa9 Brancher, drawing a huge wooden horse, spotted black and red, and flowin? as to tie tail, i On it was seated ■ a fine ehubby'boy, while two little girls, and another boy bearing bulrushea, attended the procession with laughing <lignity. Mra Brancher, a stout, blonde ladr, knitting under a beech tree, regarded the core«ony with matronly delight. I opened my casement, looked out, and nodded. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," shouted Mr Brancher, his portly face radiant with content as he dismounted his child from iis swift but inanimate steed, and tossed him into the air.

"We are going out after dinner for an evening's 1 fishinff," said I ; " children and all. We've sot a punt moored ready under the osier bank; ■will you. and your wife join us, and bring the «feiidren V

"With the- sincerest pleasure," said Mr Brancher.

"Half-past three is the time," I shouted again : "itis no use fishing while the sun's lot.V

My wife and children were delighted at the aaHdpated fishing party. It is so important, my dear boy, to have nice neighbors," remarked Lucy, "and you're so such away, you know, Arthur." We had hired a. second punt, and put chairs in it for the ladles. The children we divided. Punctually at the prescribed time, the two boats, with their laughing crews, pushed off past the lock at Bybridge, for the osier clump where we were to moor.

There could not be a more agreeable man than H* Brancher, we all thought. •He was so amiable, so nriselfish, so chatty, so determined to please sad bapleased; so well bred, so anecdotic. He ■wm evidently a^ travelled man, for he spoke of 43alcutt& and lima; his acquaintances were of a Wgh class j for he talked of "my old college jKenfl, Mountcashel." He was not, thank Heaven, what is called -" ft lady's man ''—that detestable mixture of obtrusive eelf-eoneeit, fribbledom, and small talk— tint stfll chivalrous in his inaaner, and betraying .» Rood fceart fn every action. He baited the Itoks for the ladies, told fairy stories to the Afldren, related feats in angling for mud-fish » the Baboon Him, in South Africa. To crown 1w popularity, he had brought soma champagne, •bd the merry pop et tfa« silvered «orks started 5k swallows round the «ger island.

We all enj«yed the evening; it was delightful t» see the children, when a large prickly-backod perch, his broad side striped like a zebra, his transparent fins a gtlden orange, came struggling up to the daylight. Our neighbour was indefatigable in baiting hooks, plumbing deep, extracting looks from fishes' gullete, adjusting reels, and teaching my boys how to strike from the elbow. As the evening advanced, and the white moth came on the water, Mr Brancher grew audacious in his triumphs. He drew out the fish with the rapidity of a juggler, he caught perch with the eyes of their iefiow-creatures, he even caught them with the bare hook. .A swe punted home, the conversation somehow or other fell on the audacious hotel robberies that had lately taken place throughout England, but chiefly in the midland and southern counties— a daring series of robberies, evidently planned and carried out by a well-organised and j dangerous gang of high class thieves. I spoke of the aids mgdern rogues derived from railways and the telegraph. Mr Brancher took a very high tone on the subject, and was vehement in his denunciation of the ro/ues. He advocated the severest punishments. *•' By Jove, madam," he said, addressing my wife, as he paced up and down the punt, " I would root out such scoundrels at any cost. I would transport the whole lot. I would have photographs of the villains hung up in the coffeeroom of every hotel in England.'' I suggested the difficulty of obtaining photographs before their capture. It was delightful to see Mr Brancher laugh. His fine white teeth glistened— all his face seemed to laugh. " Ha ! ha ! ha !" he said, " what a fool I am — you have me there, indeed. Of course not. Still I do think the police very grievously to blame, for not breaking up such a detestable conspiracy against honesty. You will pardon me, Mrs. Gregson, I have been a judge in the Madras Presidency, and I am a disciplinarian in such matters— not cruel, I trust— but still a disciplinarian." My wife was eloquent that night in her praises of Mr Brancher.

" But his servants tell our servants, dear," she said to me, " that he has one fault; he is too fond of rambling ; he is perpetually leaving his wife to travel."

" On business."

" No, on pleasure ; he has no business, he has a pensien. He is off again, they tell me, tomorrow, early. I wonder, Arthur, he never mentioned it to us."

A fortnight later Mr Brancher and his wife dined with us; he was' very agreeable. In the course of the evening the the conversation fell on the abolition of the punishment of death. The ex-judge was strong against such abolition. "No, ladies," he said, "lam a man of the world, and I know that the rascals wh« infest the world need to be terrified. The gibbet is a scarecrow for them."

I differed from him, but could get no partisans. Every one, even my wife, was with the ex-judge. "An excellent fellow," thought I to myself, " but of too severe a cast of thought on these matters."

The week after I and Lucy went and dined at Brancb.er'B. There was to be a little dancing in the evening. It was then, over our wine, that I first discovered Brancher to be a brother mason. This was an additional tie to bind together our growing friendship. The dinner had passed off pleasantly ; everything was choice without being vulgarly profuse ; the meat was done fo a turn; the wine was excellent. There was certainly a little too much of a tall bony gardener, in exuberant whitefeloves, who cannoned against the other servants, whispered a good deal over the dishes, laughed at our jokes, and stumbled over piles of plates in the hall. The dance went off pleasantly —some nice girls from Bybridae floated about in white musliu—Brancher was tremendous in the quadrilles; being a portly conspicuous sort of whiskery man. he always danced with the smallest and youngest lady, and flirted unconscionably, to his own and everybody's delight. I was the last to leave ; Lucy and the children had gone early. Brancher and I lingered over the end of a bottie of soecially good dry sherry. ' " By-the-by, Gregson," said he, 83 I took up my Gibus to go, " you have never seen my library yet; it is a small collection, and on a special subject, but it is curious and valuable." I followed him into a little room leading out of the library. He opened two cases. To my surprise r _the rooks were legal books. — Thieves' Tricks, Old Bailey Trials, and Newgate Calendars. " Not my style," I said. " Ha ! but you know I am an old judge, and have devoted much thought to these matters." " By-thc-by." said I/ before I go, let us arrange a croquet match for the children to-mor-row ; it is a public holiday." " Most unfortunate," he replied, " but I start to-morrow to spend three days at Derby." The next time I met Brancher, wa3 on the top of aßalham-hill omnibus. He was both surprised and pleased to meet me. He grew very chatty about the tricks of thieves in the olden times. He explained to me " ring-dropping," " chop-chain," "card-sharping," and other mysteries. "Did you ever devote much time, sir, to cipher?" asked somebody on the roof. "I know thirty-two kinds," said Brancher, laughing; "and I flatter myself that there is no advertisement in the second column of the " Times" for a whole year which I couldn't decipher in forty minutes." "Why, Brancher," said I, " what a detective you would make !" " I think I should," he said, with a smUe, " but here's my comer — good-by. Shall see you again on Friday. Kind regards to Mrs Gregson. Love at home. By, by !" That was Monday. On Tuesday I received a telegraph from Doncaster to say that my brother was dangerously ill of pleurisy; His life was on the balance — would I come.

He was a sporting man was my brother George He had been taken ill during the race week. He was lying- at the chief hotel. I made up my mind in a moment, packed up a small valise, and drove straight to EustO'i -square. When I reached Doncaater late in the evening, I found that my brother was better, and had started for Scarborough. I resolved not to follow him, but to spend the night at Doncaster, go the next day to the races, as I was on the spot, and return on the Thursday. Rather tired of the noisy betting men who filled the hotel, I supped and went to bed early. It was just at daybreak that I awoke. The blinds were downiftand the dim grey ligbt just sufficed to make the blinds semi-transparent, and show me where the windows stood. There was tlu locking-glaaa rising dark against the window

to the left, the window furthest from my bed. There were my clothes lying on a chair, looking like a rough sketch of myself. I tried to get to sleep again, but could not. There was no one stirring in the house (a distant door opening was nothing), but my mind was anxious, and! could not decoy myself back again to sleep. A slight " fistling" noise at the door roused me still more completely. It was evidently some one trying the lock. I lay still, thinking it was the Boots come to fetch my clothes to brush. Next moment the door gently opened, and a man entered on tiptoe. He was barefoot, as I could see with one eje over the bed-clothes, and was too well dressed to be the Boots. He must be a thief, I thought, and I watched. The man advanced, with a velvet tread, like the tread of a cat, to the chair where my clothes were, and taking up first my coat and then my trousers, felt the pockets ; ' luckily, I had my purse under my pillow. He then stepped to the dressing table, and quietly slipped my watch into his pocket. I could not see the fellow's face, for he wore a flat fur travelling cap, with loose pendent ear-flaps that hid his features. I could not summon up philosophy enough to bear the abduction of my gold repeater in silence, so I turned in my bed, coughed loudly, and groaned and yawned, as if I had just awoke. The man started, dropped my watch, and stammering out something about "Come for your boots, sir!" with a drunken gait evidently affected, made for the door.

I don't know what impulse it was that made me run to the window and not to the door. I didn't seize the rog&e. but I ran to the window, and pulled up the blind so as to let in a stream of cold light upon the man's face. Could I believe my eyes? The thief was Brancher. We both 'fell back like two duellists who had exchanged mortal shots. "Brancher!"

" Gregson !" He gave me a ghastly look, and fled, slamming the door behind him swiftly, but with practical dexterity, for it shut without a sound. I returned to London next day, pondering over the strange event. I could find no clue to Brancher's iaU. He could not be a practised thief; yet it was impossible that he could at once have plunged into crime. I thought of his wife and children, and af his pleasant home. A few hours brought me to Bybridge. Lucy received me with rather a sad face. " O Arthur," she said, " dear Mrs Brancher i 3 in such trouble ! Her husband has written to her from romewhere in the North to sell everything directly, let the house, and join him at Liverpool. Do go in and comfort her." I went into Willow Cottage, and found Mrs. | Brancher in great distress. She either would not, or could not, tell me anything about her husband's reason for removing. I went the next day and arranged the sale for her. The sale took place. She came to wish us good by, and left. We heard no more of the Branchers for two months. One day, when I came from the City, Lucy ran to meet me, with a large letter in her hand. It was closed with a great black seal bearing a coat of arms, of which the palm-tree was the most conspicuous feature. "0, do see what it is, Arthur !" cried Lucy ; " I'm sure it it poor Mr Brancher's writing." I had never told Lucy the story of what had' happened to me at the Doncaster Hotel. I stood leaning on my garden-gate, as I opened the letter, and read it alone. It ran thus : — Lancaster Castle, Nov. 13, 1853.

My dear Gregson,— l dare say you little expected ever to see my handwriting again after our unpleasant recontre at Doncaster. I write to you, because I know you to be a good, kindhearted fellow, who once had a restard for me. Fortune has been hard upon me, though not perhaps harder than I have deserved, for to tell you the plain truth, old boy, I am, and always was, a consummate scoundrel; but even scoundrels are, I suppose, sometimes to be pitied, and then, my poor wife and children ! I cannot tell you i more now, but I beg you to come and see me before I leave England (this is a delicate way of telling you that I am safe to be transported for life). Ido not ask you for my own sake, but for the sake of poor Dizzy and the children, to whom you maybe of use ia away you are not aware of. Kindest remembrances to Mrs Gregson. Believe me to be, yours moat truly, Henry Fitzosmond Branchbr. Lucy was paralysed with astonishment at this strange letter, at once so reckless and so regretful. Her curiosity was (specially excited j by those words of the letter so mysterious to her — " unpleasant recontre." "What does he mean, Arthur?" she asked, with that cross-examining air, not, perhaps, quite unknown to my married readers. But for once I was inflexible. I positively refused to tell her until I should return from Lancaster. Next day, at five o'clock, I stepped out of a railway carriage on the platform of the Lancaster station. Driving first to the hotel to deposit my carpet-bag (for I meant to sleep in Lancaster), I got into the fly again, and told the driver to set me down at the prison gate. As I stood waiting at the door until an under turnkey had run to take in my card to the governor, a lady dressed in black, and followed by two children, with faces hidden and bitterly sobbing, drove from the door. I was sure it was Mrs Brancher and her children.

When the turnkey, in his cold imperturbable manner, unlocked the third door down the second corridor, and flung it wide open in a careless mechanical way, I found Brancher sitting on his pallet, humming " I remember, I remember," with much nonchalance. He was as florid in manner as ever. He wore a short tail coat of prison grey, and trousers, one leg pepper and salt, and the other canary color. "No style about the clothes," he said to me ruefully, stretching, out his yellow leg. " How do you do, Gregson ? Glad to see you, old fellow; sorry I cannot offer you better hospitality; will for the deed." The turnkey left us, and I sat down on the bed near Brancher, who assumed an autobiographical manner, and wared a black-edged envelope in his hand as ho spoke. "My dear boy," said he, "when I told you I was once a judge in India, I reserved the important feet that I was driven from my judg-ment-sent on an absurd charge of corruption. The man who drove me from it, however, I should not forget to say, was a greater thief than myself, and only hated me because I was his rival. I returned to England almost penniless, and declared war against the richer part of mankind, especially hotel-keepers. I determined to live on rich fools, and never to starve while they had a crust. I had first tried to be honest, tried lecturer, wine merchant, coal merchant, auctioneer, house agent, but failed in all. Tempted

in the hour of »eed, I joined a gang of swindlers, and soon became comparatively rich. We worked grand combinations of fraud, and divided the spoil." As he made this unblushing confcsaon, Bran- | cher kept rolling a small pill, about the color and 4 size of the seed of a sweet-pea, between his finger and thumb. " Holloway ?" sttid L glancing at the pill inquisitively. " No,"' said he, smiling. " O no; not Hoiloway. A far better pill: It cures everything— stitches, ague, gout, cramp, brain, stomach, everything. But, aa I was saying, our gang prospered. At last we got too daring, and I was caught. But there was one disagreeable condition entailed on all those who entered our confedraey, and who should fall into the hands of the Philistines. That condition I have been unpleasantly reminded of this morniug by the letter I now hold in my hand."

" And this condition?" said I. " I cannot tell you. Take this letter, I hare resealed. open it to-raorrow when you get up, you will then see, and act accordingly. But enough of that. Why I asked you to come was - this. I shall soon have to start for a distant country ;— transported, in fact. I do not want to leave poor Lizzy and the children beggars. I have some money which I wish you to take care of and manage ior them." ! " Money r I said, incredulous. "A prisoner with money ?" " Yes," said he • "a prisoner with money. Do you think an old thief has mot two tricks for every one that the thief taker has ? Loos." He stooped down, an* taking off his heavy soled shoe, pricked out one of the sparrowbillnafls in the heel, and then slid back a sort of lid, which covered a box-shaped hollow, constructed in the thickness of the heel. He drew out a small square wad of bank notes — they were notes to a. large amount. • "There," said he ; " that's for Lizzy. It was honestly got, and is not part of my spoil, so you. need not fear taking it." I did not put out my hand. " Gregson," said hi?, "if you do not pity me,., you should pity Lizzy. I swear to you on thfe. • Bible, she did not know how I lived. I spared . you too when I could have stripped you of every penny of your savings." I started.

"Do you not remember how, one night when you had a whist party, I came in and got you into , a discussion about monograms, how we all began to try signatures, and I eventually went off witb>., the paper that contained them 1 I could hare forged your name to any amount, but I spared! you because we had been good friends." I took the money, and listened to his direction* as to how it was to be invested. •' Be kind,'* he said, " to Lizzy aad the chil-. ' iren— they will not be ungrateful. The boys . will grow up go«d men. Give them and PoUj my love."

" But you do not go yet ?" \ "No, not yet," he replied, slowly; "but l cannot bear to see them again." And as he said this, in a rather low voice, he playfully fillipedthe little brown pill at the wall and caught it again in his hand. " If it were not somewhat pharisiacal and cruel to preach to you at thia moment, Brancher/ said I, " I should urge you to lament your lost opportunities, your injured wife, your degraded children. It is hard in these selfish days to struggle upward; it is doubly cruel, then, to. take one's children and hurl them down into aa abyss of hopeless poverty. You had talents, yoo had all that men require to fight their way to the sunshine." " And do you think I never lament those lost opportunities?" said Brancher, turning away Ms ■ head ; " it was my mode of revenging myself on . an unjust world." " But a pitiful way ; the world is an abstraction — you cannot revenge yourself on it except by injuring the innocent, and hardening the innocent, and hardening and debasing yourself." " Our points of view differ," said Brancher, rising as the turnkey came back for me. •' Good— by. God bless you for the kind things you mean, I feel sure you, do. Forget the rogue but think of poor Lizzy and her children \" (Brancher's face looked paler, as the doorclosed upon him.)

I locked my bedroom door that night. It was late next morning when I awoke : solate that I had but just tune to hurry on my clothes, and run down and snatch a hasty break--fast. I was so hurried that I forgot Brancher*s letter, and did not think of it until I got to the station and had taken my ticket. Then I re- ■ membeved it, took it out of my pocket, and opened the envelope. The letter contained onlythree words, written in red ink, in a bold-com-mercial hand.

+ " DEATH" OB DEATH + At that moment a newsboy came running past me with the morning local paper. It was Saturday. " Sudden death of a prisoner in the Castle," hecried. " Death of Davi3on, alias Brancher!" r bought a paper, paid for it with a trembling hand, and read as follows : " Last night, at about ten o'clock, the turnkey in the Castle, making his rounds to turn, out the ■ lights, and hearing a low groan from cell thirtytwo, unlocked the door, and going in discovered' a prisoner named Davison, alias Brancher, lying in the agonie3 of death at the foot of his palletbed. Assistance was immediately procured, and J , the governor and doctor summoned to the spot,, but all in vain. The prisoner expired at fourteen minutes past ten. He had been in high spirits throughout the day, and was heard by the turnkey singing at half-past nine o'clock. It is supposed that serous . apoplexy was the cause of death. The man has left a widow and several children. He was a person of good education;but, lamentable to relate, the chief, as it is sup- ' ' posed, of a gang of swindlers whose machinations . extended over all Europe. An inquest is to be held to-morrow on the body."

We were told that, the other day, a literarygenfleman, being rather, badly off for pens, sat down to write with a headache. It is, we believe,., a painful operation, but a great saving of quills. An Irishman's Reply.—" I say, Mick, what sort of potatoes are those you are planting?"-— ! "Raw ones, to be sure; your konor wouldn't !»-> j thinking I would plant boiled ones." i Ladies, if your husbands scold you for buying too expensive cuffe, give them a few smart oaes t»keep them quiet.' When a ship goes into port, she usually steadiest. When port goes into mast he usually reels.