ROLAND LEIGH; OR, THE STORY OF am admonished by the approach of age, and some A CITY ARAB. CHAPTER I.-INTRODUCTORY. I HAVE often promised to draw up a narrative of some of the events in my chequered life; and I No. 262, 1857. symptoms of growing infirmities, that the performance of this promise ought not to be longer delayed. Those of my friends who have shared my inti B In a corner of the room was another couch, not occupied then; and this, with a wooden shelf, fastened into a recess formed by the projecting brickwork of a chimney, and a rusty grate, in which lingered a spark or two from some dying embers, completed the inventory of the chamber. macy will acquit me of false shame in having so of the boards were loose, and some broken away, long postponed the history which will now be leaving dangerous gaps for unwary footsteps. The made public, for its outlines have been at various furniture of the room was a small deal table; two times freely communicated to them; and it is no chairs, one of which was occupied by the poor secret that the owner of the pleasant residence, in watcher and worker; and a flock mattress, on the the library of which I am now comfortably seated, floor, on which lay a child, whose age might be has no hereditary claim to respect or reverence. five or six years, and who, wakened by the uproar If I would, I cannot boast of my ancestry, nor of the elements without, was watching his mother point with pride to my respectable family con--for the young woman was his mother-with nections. My only birthright was to breathe the dreamy interest. common air of life, and my inheritance was poverty and degradation; or, if other birthright and inheritance were mine, they were lost to me in the days of unconscious infancy. Yet, a feeling of gratitude to the Providence that has so happily guided my path, seems to render such a memoir appropriate. Nor is gratitude the only motive which urges me to the record of my past life. Surely, I trust it will not be without its uses. Will it not teach some poor down-trodden one that there is no condition in life so hopeless as to be beyond the reach of amelioration and redemption, and help to nerve him for the conflicts through which he may have to pass in feeling his way on ward and upward? Will it not encourage him in this course to know-or assist in showing-that there is a power to which he may look, an arm on which he may lean, for strength and encouragement, when worldly friends are few ? "Past ten o'clock, and a stormy night!" The hoarse voice of the watchman was faintly heard from the pavement below, mingling with the pattering of the sleet, and the moaning of the wind, and the rattling of loose tiles overhead, when the door was pushed open, and a tall female figure, wrapped in a faded and ragged red cloak, and with her head partially covered with a battered bonnet, which had once been black, stumbled heavily in, and threw herself on the unoccupied chair. 66 Is it working ye are again at this time of night, Ellen ?" she demanded, in a voice not utterly devoid of sympathy. "Ye'll work yer fingers to the bone, darling; and your cough so bad." The young woman spread out her hand. "There is not far to get to the bone," she said passionately; "and I have not much more to do." And surely also my story will yield gratification to those who, in their philanthropic efforts, do not shrink from coming in contact with the dregs of society, but plunge, with moral and spiritual heroism, into and within and beyond the purlieus of "And, may be, ye'll not tell what ye are after wickedness and pollution, and penetrate into the making out of that bit of flannel? Sure!" she haunts and strongholds of heathendom at home-ejaculated, lifting her hands in horror, as the other surely, I say, to such as these I may hope to impart at least pleasure and encouragement, by teaching them not to be weary in well-doing. But I will no longer dwell on preliminary details. CHAPTER II. THE FIRST SCENE IN MEMORY'S PHANTASMAGORIA. By the dim light of a single candle, a woman, not many years past girlhood, sat working with her needle. Her dress was mean and scanty; her face, though so young, was haggard and careworn; her fingers were very thin and pale, yet not paler than her countenance; and a constant racking cough caused her frequently to suspend her labours, while it shook her whole frame with its violence, and convulsed her features with pain. It was a dark night, and stormy and cold--very cold. Mingled snow and slect beat against the broken window, which rattled distressfully; while the scanty curtain-a checked apron-which was suspended before it and barely concealed it, swayed to and fro with every gust of wind. unfolded the garment on which she had previously bestowed some hours of nightly labour, and held it up in the dim light," it isn't a "Hush!" exclaimed the young mother hastily; "Roland is awake." "Ye tould me it was something for yourself, Ellen," whispered the woman. "It is for myself, Mrs. Magrath; and it will not be long before I have to wear it. You know that." "Ye'll hould your tongue about that, Ellen," said the woman. "Ye shut yourself up here from morning to night, darling, and niver taste a bit of fresh air; and 'tis starving yourself ye are." "I am very ill, Peggy, and you know it," said the young woman; "and, if it wasn't for the boy, I wouldn't care how soon it is all over. There's rest enough where I am going-rest for the body, at least;" and Ellen folded her arms over the table, and, leaning her head upon them, while her long dark hair concealed her face, sobbed loudly. The older woman meanwhile had risen, and divested herself of her dripping bonnet and cloak. In person she was a perfect contrast to her comThe apartment was a wretched attic in a dila- panion; she was above the ordinary height, and pidated house in a London alley. The plastered her whole appearance was masculine. Her arms, walls of the garret were discoloured with damp, bare to the elbow, were red, large, and muscular; and in some places had given way, laying bare the and her face, which was broad and coarse, was not black, rotten laths, between which the air whistled improved in its aspect by a profusion of red freely in, playing with the feeble blaze of the rush-frowsy hair which covered her forehead. light, threatening every moment to extinguish it, and causing a stream of melted tallow to gutter into the flat iron candlestick. The flooring of the room was worm-eaten, rotten, and uneven; many "You're a little foolish darling," she replied, in a softened voice; "ye ought to have more spurrit than to care three turns of a straw for the goodfor-nothing---" Don't, don't!" exclaimed the young mother, | know that I am doomed; but, Peggy, when I am in a smothered tone; "I can't bear it, Mrs. Ma- gone, oh, you'll- and her voice sunk into a grath." tremulous whisper. "Well, then, I won't spake another word about it," said Peggy; "but ye'll promise not to take on so. And as for your bit of a cough, Ellen, ye'll take some of my purscription-that's a word I larnt to-day of the docthor's wife." "I don't want any medicine," said the young mother, without raising her head; "it isn't medicine that will cure a broken heart; and the coughthat's only a symptom of what is going on within. Look!" and, without otherwise moving her position, she withdrew one arm from under her face, and held up a handkerchief to the flickering light. Once more Peggy Magrath uttered a cry of horror. "Is it blood ye have been coughing up like that, and not to tell me?" "It only came on to-day," said the younger female; "but I have long known what was coming. It won't last much longer, Peggy." "I'll niver forget the promise, darling; and bitther woe upon him that has brought ye and the boy to have no betther friend than Peggy Magrath; but she'll niver desave ye." "Don't wish him evil, Peggy," pleaded the young mourner; "I cannot do so, I that have the most reason. There are times when I can pray | for him, and almost forgive him all he has done. He is my husband." "Ye're half an angel already, Ellen," said the other; "and I'll not mintion his name again; but ye're all in a thremble: ye have not wanted a meal to-day, darling ?" "We have not wanted food, Peggy," said the young mother. "But a thrifle of mate," said the charwomanfor such, by profession, was Peggy Magrath—“ a thrifle of mate, tenther and juicy!" While speaking, she rose from her seat and spread out her treasures on the table, lighting also one of her candle-ends and fixing it in the neck of a bottlethe fellow to that which held her cordial. “Tendher and juicy," she repeated. "I brought away my supper, darling, to ate it at home, as ye needn't be misdoubting." While this conversation was going on, the older woman, having reseated herself by the side of her companion, had been emptying what must have been a capacious pair of pockets, of some portion of their contents, consisting principally of what persons in her condition generally call "broken victuals." There were also two or three long ends The young mother refused, however, to partake of partially consumed candles, a lump of yellow of her friend's dainties: she had no appetite, she soap, and a stone-ware bottle which had probably said. "I have no business to ask questions, once contained ink; but from which, after extract- Peggy," she added, after a short silence; "but ing the cork with her teeth, she now poured out-but, if you are allowed so much food for a portion of translucid and colourless liquid into supper a broken wine-glass which she had reached from the shelf. The young woman raised herself from her melancholy posture; but she refused the offered cordial. "You must not tempt me, Mrs. Magrath," she said mournfully. I am low enough and miserable enough, and I am tempted often enough, I believe, to drown my senses in gin; but I dare not do it: I cannot forget what I was. You'll not tempt me, Peggy." She said this imploringly. Is it a tempter ye'd make me out to be, Ellen?" demanded Mrs. Magrath, half reproachfully, after swallowing the rejected dram at a single gulp. D'ye think I'd offer it ye, if I didn't know it 'd do ye good, darling ?" "You are very good-very, very kind, Peggy. If it had not been for you, when I--" and, leaving the sentence unfinished, the young woman broke into painful lamentations, which she endeavoured to stifle by laying her face on the bosom of her comforter, who, as a mother would a child, placed her arms round her, and tenderly hushed her to quiet. "Whist, then, whist, darling; don't take on so: think of little Roland; he'll be the man yet; and there's betther loock in store for ye, for all that's past an' gone." "Not for me, Mrs. Magrath," said the young mother, with more composure, relieving her friend of her light weight. "You know that; you 66 ,, Ellen, darling," said the woman, demurely, 'if ye ax no questions, ye'll have no stories tould.' And then, the candles and soap, Peggy ?" continued the younger woman, laying her hand kindly on the washerwoman's arm, and looking timidly into her face. Aisy, then, darling; if ye look at me in that way, I'll niver tell ye the lie: sure them's my parquisites; and 'tis little enough." But, Peggy," rejoined the young mother, with a tremulous voice, "if my poor, poor boypoor Roland, should have no one to teach him and care for him-oh! Mrs. Magrath, will you promise, promise, promise that you will try and keep him honest ?" She said this very earnestly. The elder woman burst into tears. "I'll think ye're looking down upon me, Ellen," she sobbed; "and-yes, I'll give ye my promise, darling: but niver fear, little Roland will find a betther purtector than Peggy Magrath." The young mother shook her head mournfully. "I tell ye, yes, darling; and now ye'll tell me again" Her voice was lost in a whisper; and for some minutes, amidst the turmoil of the storm without, the two women communed together very earnestly, but in a tone so low and guarded that no intelligible sounds reached the couch where the boy lay, still awake. I've got it all in my mimory now, Ellen, and it'll niver rub out. And now, darling, ye'll put that ugly work out of sight and out of mind; for it'll be a long day before ye want it and ye'll pluck up your spurrits, dear; and I'll look in at the docthor's to-morrow and get some stuf for that nasty cough, that maybe will set ye up : again, Ellen; andbut, Ellen, darling, what's come o'er ye, child?" she exclaimed, in alarm. "Is it fainting ye are ?" It was time to ask this; for the countenance of the young mother had gradually assumed the pallor of death, and she was sinking to the floor when the other caught her, and, lifting her in her strong arms, bore her to the unoccupied couch. "Och! dear!" she ejaculated; if she isn't dying!" The boy sprang from his bed, and with a loud cry of distress ran across the room, and threw himself upon the insensible body. "Mother! mother!" while Mrs. Magrath hastily uncorked her bottle again, and poured some of its contents into Ellen's mouth. Either the application was successful, or the cry of distress from the child roused the mother from her temporary trance. A few minutes later she was assisted by her fellow lodger to her own couch, and was laid gently down, closely clasping her weeping and affrighted Roland in her arms, while poor Peggy robbed herself of her own bed-covering to add to the comfort of the unhappy pair. 'I'll put this out of sight, any way," muttered Mrs. Magrath to herself, after performing that charitable action, and rolling up, with a look of disgust, the garment on which the young mother had been employed, and throwing over it her faded cloak. "To think of a sinsible craytur, like Ellen Leigh, thinkin' of makin' her own shroud!" She then sat down by the bedside, and soon sank off into a heavy doze. Meanwhile, and through the remainder of the night, the storm did not cease to beat with violence against the crazy roof and walls and broken window of the attic. This, reader, is the first scene in my history, which succeeding events indelibly impressed on my memory; for I am Roland Leigh. CHAPTER III. THE SECOND SCENE.-I AM MOTHERLESS. BEFORE I proceed with my story, which-notwithstanding some inconveniences attaching to this style of narrative-I shall henceforth carry on in the first person, I must be allowed a few lines of explanatory digression. I had never known any other home than that which I have partially described, nor any other companions than my mother and Mrs. Magrath. I was observant enough to know that, in some respects, there was much difference between these two solitary females; but in one particular they resembled each other, namely, in their kindness to me. The calling of Mrs. Magrath I have already disclosed; my mother earned bread as a needlewoman. As this was at a time when needle-work was probably a more profitable employment than in this present year of '57, I can only account for the constant grinding poverty under which my mother laboured, by supposing, first, that she was an indifferent hand at her business, or, secondly, that from ill health, or some other cause, she was often unoccupied. That this was the case, indeed, I know; and I remember that on these days of languor or enforced idleness, she had made some attempts to teach me to read from a torn and dirty spelling-book; but with little success, I fear. At any rate, what I thus attained slipped out of my mind, and a few years afterwards I had to recommence my alphabetical toils. I had at that time no opportunities of comparing my mother with others in her own position, for, as I have said, I knew no one besides her and Peggy Magrath; but, as I now remember her, I am convinced, apart from other grounds of certainty, that my mother was more refined in her manners, as well as better educated, than the majority of her neighbours. I know, also, that when compelled to descend from her attic, and pass into the street, she shrank from communication with those of her own sex-who would have claimed intercourse with her by the freemasonry of a common poverty-and hurried on as thongh fearful of being recognised or noticed; and that she trembled if only casually addressed by any of the other sex. But these excursions-on which I uniformly accompanied my mother-were very rare, for the good-natured Mrs. Magrath was the usual medium of communication between her and her employers, and was also the invariable and trusty purchaser of the few necessaries of life which interposed between us and starvation. It will not be supposed that, as a child of five years old or thereabouts, I had studied these peculiarities, or even that I knew them as peculiarities; but I recollected them in after years, and I remember them now. From this digression I return to take up the thread of my history. A few gleams of pale, feeble sunshine were stealing in through the window and chinks of our poor lodging when I woke on the following morning. The storm had passed away. The scene within was changed also. To my surprise, I found myself on the mattress of our fellow-lodger, while she was standing by my mother's bedside, sobbing loudly. There were other footsteps in the room, and unaccustomed voices: they proceeded from a woman whom I knew to be the landlady of the house, and a stout man in a dark cloak, whom I had never before seen. My heart throbbed with dread while I listened to the following conversation:— 66 Not the least use in the world, I tell you. It was the most foolish thing in the world to send for me-at this time of day too, after I had been up all night: I tell you the woman can't last six hours longer." "But what am I to do, doctor? It is a very awkward thing, you see, to have a corpse in the house, and nobody to bury it. Couldn't she bear moving to the workhouse before she goes off?” "The workhouse, ma'am? The woman would die before you could get her down-stairs." "Is it the workhouse, Mrs. Crane, ye're spaking of ?" said my mother's only friend, turning round and facing her landlady with an indignant countenance; "ye needn't think of it, ma'am." 66 Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, contemptuously, "and who is to hinder it, Mrs. Peggy Magrath, if I choose to give the word ? And who is to hinder my telling of you to follow her into the street at my bidding, Mrs. Magrath?" "Silence! hush! good women both," said the doctor, reprovingly. "The poor woman is sen |