Meanwhile Lord Falkland, having parted from Mr. Hyde, was walking along the river-bank, where an uneven row of houses edged the gardens of Northumberland House, Whitehall, and the estates of the Buckingham family.
The intense disquiet that agitated the country did not show itself here: barges and sailing vessels went peacefully past on the brown tide, urchins played in the mud, boatmen clustered round the steps and clamoured for fares, at some house near by a concert of music was being performed, and outside on the cobbles the barefoot children danced.
One or two gallants escorting ladies masked from the weather strolled by, and over all was the peaceful glow of the summer sunset hour.
The scene was thrice familiar to Lord Falkland, but his sensitive soul and quick eye were alive to every detail of the street, the people, and the river.
He loved England, he loved London and the crooked river, built over with crooked houses, from which rose the churches with the Gothic towers or lead cupolas; but to-night this love made him feel melancholy. He had a premonition that terror and discord would descend on the beloved city, on the beloved land, and that he would be able to avail nothing against those relentless forces of which Mr. Cromwell was typical, and which seemed to be sweeping him on to tumult and strife.
He had left all the delights of his wealthy retirement—his dear family, his dear friends, and his dear literature—that he might help his country in the pass to which she had come.
And now he had himself arrived at a pass and must decide whether he would remain with the party by which he had so far stood, or remain loyal to the ancient Church and the ancient constitution which his fathers had served and defended.
He paused in his walk when he reached Whitehall stairs, and turned to look at the splendid new palace as it rose above the gardens and the houses.
It was a very gorgeous sunset: gold and tawny, scarlet and crimson were flung out across the purple west like great banners unfolded; in each window-glass a blot of gold glittered amazingly; gold lay in every little wrinkle in the surface of the river and on the patched canvas of the ships; from the sea a wind was blowing, and in the breath of it the heat of the summer day died.
My Lord Falkland lifted his eyes from the palace to the magnificence of the heavens and his sadness increased upon him; when presently he looked to earth again he was aware of a small child crying on a doorstep over some tremendous woe.