It seemed to be also the sound for which Sir John had been waiting in the ill-lighted passage outside, for now he threw up his head and flung his cloak back with a gesture of satisfaction, whilst a strange laugh, which had but little of merriment in it and a great deal of contempt, broke from his lips as an echo to the light-hearted gaiety beyond.
Sir John now continued his way, past the Coffee Room to a door beyond the stairway at the extreme end of the passage. This he threw open without further ceremony and found himself in that small room of the tavern, wherein Master Foorde—the host—served his more distinguished guests. As a rule merriment and noise, equal at least to that which obtained in the public coffee room, reigned in this private sanctum: many would have said that the great and courtly gentlemen who foregathered here indulged usually in carouses and drunken orgies which would have put the more plebeian merrimakers to shame.
But to-night, at the moment that Ayloffe entered the room, a kind of sullen silence reigned therein. Through the thick haze of tobacco smoke which hung like a grey pall above the feebly flickering light of some half dozen tallow candles, the newcomer could perceive four faces—flushed with wine and heavy meats, dimly outlined against the full greyness of drab-coloured walls, and dark oak wainscotting.
The candles themselves guttering in their sockets threw forth fillets of thick grimy smoke which mingled with the fumes of tobacco, and helped to cast fantastic and trembling shadows on fine cloth surcoats and vests of broidered silk. From the coffee room immediately adjoining the parlour came—echoing faintly through the thick timbered walls—the shouts of laughter, the loudly-uttered oaths, the ribald songs of the merry company, and at intervals, against the tiny panes of the small casement window the dull patter of the rain or the occasional distant call of the watchman challenging an evening prowler.
In the furthest angle of the room, my lord Rochester seated in the chair of honour had apparently been reading aloud to this moody company, the expressions of his latest poetic fancy. He was in the act of rolling up his manuscript and tying it up with a length of rose-coloured ribbon, but his face usually so self-satisfied and so gay bore an expression of keen discontent.
As a rule his poems—highly prized by the king and the ladies—were listened to here among the circle of his intimates with the greatest delight and oft with noisy appreciation. But on this occasion he had been quite unable to hold the attention of his audience, and even whilst he read his most impassioned verses he could not help but notice that all eyes were fixed on the young Earl of Stowmaries, who sat with his head resting in his hand, leaning forward half across the table in an attitude of the deepest dejection.
The young man had arrived late, only joining the convivial party when supper was already at an end, and Mistress Foorde had removed the remains of the finest venison pie which she had ever concocted.
He had taken his place at the table after a curt and sullen nod to the company who had greeted him most sympathetically. He had declared himself unable to eat, but had ordered a bottle of strong sherry and also a bottle of brandy, which expensive liquid—so 'twas said afterwards by some of the company present—he freely mixed with sherry and drank very plentifully.
The story of his unfortunate early marriage and of his hopeless passion for Mistress Julia Peyton had somehow or other leaked out, and before his arrival had been freely discussed in a facetious and irresponsible spirit.