he might be, but we have it on M. Misson's own authority—and he was no great admirer of things English and speaks somewhat ill-naturedly of everything he saw during his voyage—that the cellars at the sign of the Three Bears were exceedingly well stocked with Spanish and Rhenish wines and even with French brandies which were heady and vastly pleasing to the palate first and to the temper afterwards.
We are also told by that same highly-critical French traveller that Mistress Janet Foorde, wife of the landlord of the Three Bears, could turn out a better supper than any other cook in London, and fashioned a lamprey pie, or a fricassée of rabbits and chickens, in such a delicious manner that once eaten it could never be forgotten.
Be that as it may, we know it for a fact that in this year of grace 1678 the Tavern in the Strand at the sign of the Three Bears was, every evening after the hour of eight, frequented by the very élite of London society. Supper was served in one of the smaller rooms at a table around which sat those same gentlemen who in the earlier part of the day had graced His Majesty's levee, or the Court of the unhappy Queen, or that narrow circle which stood as a phalanx round the person of the unpopular Duke of York.
The assembly purported to be political. There was more than a mere suggestion of Roman Catholic discontent freely expressed around that congenial board, and it was well known that on more than one occasion the King himself had been present at these gatherings—incognito, of course—his identity known only to his own intimate friends.
But the discussion of the political and social position of Roman Catholics in England, was, we must admit, not the primary object of the nightly reunions in the private room at the Three Bears. Supper after the play in the King's House came first, then dice, hazard or the more fashionable game of Spanish ombre, all well interlarded with the chief gossip and scandals of the day.
Reputations for beauty, wit or morals were made or marred around that table in the small room; the latest fashions were discussed, which to adopt and which to reject. The young fops fresh from the Grand Tour here recounted their impressions, displayed—for approval or disfavour—the latest modes from Paris, the new surcoats, the monstrous periwigs, the very latest notion in lace cravats.
Here, too, the young rakes aired their—oft scandalous—literary efforts, bonsmots unfit for ladies' ears were invented and retailed, and we all know that my lord of Rochester never thought of publishing verse or prose without first submitting it to the censorship of the select party at the Three Bears.
We may take it that Sir John Ayloffe—despite the vicissitudes of fortune which had brought him to the pass of empty pockets and of unavowable shifts—was still a persona grata at the nightly assemblies of the distinguished tavern, for some few hours after his interview with his beautiful kinswoman on this memorable evening of February 8th, 1678, we see him turning his footsteps unhesitatingly in the direction of the "Three Bears" in the Strand.
Closely wrapped in his cloak, for the wind blew bitter gusts, he bent his head against the driving rain as he walked. The rickety door of the tavern stood invitingly open and as one accustomed to the place Sir John with quickened steps entered the narrow passage.
Immediately his nostrils were greeted with the pungent odour of onions and of boiling fat, and his ears with loud shouts of merriment, which raised a boisterous echo in the tumble-down building and seemed to make the walls totter on their insecure foundation.
This hilarious noise, wherein songs, sung in hoarse voices very much out of tune, mingled with violent outbursts of prolonged laughter and with volleys of full-toned oaths, proceeded from behind a door on the cracked panels of which the ten letters of the word Coffee Room tumbled one against the other, like a row of drunken men.
For a moment Sir John paused just outside that door, bending his ear to listen in an attitude of deep attention, like one trying to catch one special sound from out that confused babel which went on within.
The passage in which he stood had been wholly dark but for the dim, uncertain light which came from a brass lanthorn suspended from the blackened ceiling just above his head. Sir John waited a second or two, until a loud and merry shout of laughter rose above the bibulous din. It was the laughter which comes from a young and lusty throat, the laughter of careless irresponsibility and of thoughtless debauchery.
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.
"Old Rowley liked the tale, and was vastly amused thereby," Lord Rochester had said, thus unceremoniously referring to the merry King of England. "I told it him in all its bearings, and he laughed immoderately at thought of a tailor's wench being actually married to my lord of Stowmaries, and expecting to be presented at Court. But after that first outburst of hilarity he looked very grave and said that the matter must presently be arranged to the satisfaction of all those concerned."
"But how can that be done?" queried Sir Anthony Wykeham, who was a strict Catholic and liked