The city of London is almost twice as large as it was then; many places which I knew as open fields being built up, and whole streets stretching out into the country. America, which at that time was not known to many people at all—I am sure I never heard of it till I came to London—is now visited by English ships every year, and merchandise brought from thence. It is a changed world, and on the whole much for the better, whatever old folks may say.
[CHAPTER IV.]
A NEW LIFE.
WHEN we reached the Strand, we found the rest of our escort waiting for us before a handsome house which I had often seen in my walks. There were two or three stout fellows well-armed, and a sober, somewhat vinegar-faced man, dressed like a steward or something of that sort. Two other men led palfreys caparisoned for women's use. As we drew near and joined the group, the door opened and two ladies were led forth. They were closely veiled, yet I could see that one was young and handsome. As she was put upon her horse, she raised her veil for a moment and looked about with a wild, despairing glance, like that of some small, helpless, trapped animal, seeking a way of escape. In a moment, the veil was dropped again, the other lady mounted her horse, and the whole cavalcade set forward as briskly as the state of the road would permit.
The fresh, sharp, autumn air; the quick movement, and the change of scene, roused me a little from the heavy stupor of grief and rage—I know not what else to call it—which had oppressed me, and I began to look about me. Father Austin seemed to note the change, and began gently to point out different objects of interest. He showed me the house where he himself was born and brought up—a comfortable old red brick hall, looking like the very home of peace and plenty in its ancient elm and nut trees, and began to tell me little tales of his boyhood, of his mother and sisters and his pet rabbits.
At first I was conscious of nothing but a wish to be let alone, but almost insensibly I began to listen, to be interested, and asked little questions. The sharp, heavy distress was at my heart still, but as one suffering from the pain of a wound is yet willing to be a little diverted from his misery, albeit the pain is not lessened thereby, so I was not sorry to listen to the kind father's tale. Presently we passed a building shut in by high walls, like a convent, and as the road wound close by the gate, we could hear within sounds of somewhat unbridled mirth and laughter.
"What house is that?" asked the steward, who rode close by us.
"It was the house of Our Lord once," said the father, dryly. "Now it belongs to Master Cromwell."
The man bit his lip as if he had received some sort of check, and fell back a little. The house was, in fact, one of the many small convents which had fallen during the past few years.