For a time the artful Elizabeth feigned submission to Sir John's anger; and he began to congratulate himself that this trouble at least, whatever others might follow, was at an end. But how little he knew his daughter, or her lover, the sequel proved.
One day, a few weeks after Sir John's fierce ultimatum, a young baker, carrying a large flat-topped basket, called at his house, from which he soon emerged, touching his cap to the merchant as he passed him in the garden, and giving him a respectful "good day." "A civil young man," Sir John said to himself, as he continued his promenade; "his face seems somehow familiar to me." And well might it be familiar; for the baker who gave him such a civil greeting was none other than the scapegrace, Compton; and inside the basket, which he carried so lightly, was the merchant's only daughter and heiress, whom her lover had taken this daring and unconventional way of abducting under the very nose of her parent.
It was not long before Sir John's disillusionment came. His daughter was nowhere to be seen; and none of his domestics knew of her whereabouts. Alarm gave place to suspicion, and suspicion to fury against his child and against the young reprobate who, he felt sure, had outwitted him. Messengers were despatched in all directions in chase of the runaways; but the escapade had been much too cunningly planned to fail in execution. Before Sir John set eyes on his daughter again—now becomingly penitent—she had blossomed into the Baroness Compton, wife of the last man her father would have desired to call his son-in-law.
To "Rich Spencer" the blow was crushing, humiliating. It was bad enough to be defied and outwitted, to be made a fool of by his own daughter; but to know that the treasure he had lost had fallen into such undesirable hands was bitter beyond words. His home and his heart were alike desolate; and, in his despair and wrath, he vowed that he would never own his daughter as his child, and that not one penny of his should ever go into the Compton coffers.
In this mood of sullen, unforgiving anger Sir John remained for a full year; when to his surprise and delight he received a summons to attend, at Whitehall, on the Queen, whose graciousness during his mayoralty he remembered with pleasure and gratitude; and no man in England was prouder or more pleased than he when, at the time appointed, he made his bow to his Sovereign-Lady and kissed her hand.
"I have summoned you, Sir John," Her Majesty said, "to ask a great favour of you. I do not often stoop, as you know, to beg a favour of any man; nor should I now, did I not know that I have no more dutiful subject than yourself, and that to ask of you is to receive. I am interested in two young people who have had the misfortune to marry against the wishes of the lady's father, and who have thus forfeited his favour. And I wish you to give me and the youthful couple pleasure by taking his place and standing sponsor to their first child."
To such a request made by his Sovereign Sir John could but give a delighted consent. He would do much more than this, he vowed, to give her a moment's gratification; and he not only attended the baptismal ceremony, but on the suggestion of the Queen, who was also present, allowed the child to bear his own Christian name. "More than this, your Majesty," he declared, "as I have now no child of my own, I will gladly adopt this infant as my heir."
"Your goodness of heart, Sir John," Her Majesty answered, beaming with pleasure, "shall not go unrewarded; for the child you have now taken to your heart and made inheritor of your wealth is indeed of your own flesh and blood—the first-born son of your daughter, and my friend, Elizabeth Compton."
Such was the dramatic plight into which "Rich Spencer's" loyalty and generosity had led him. He had innocently pledged himself to adopt as his heir, the son of the daughter he had disowned for ever. "And now, Sir John," continued the Queen, "that you have conceded so much to make me happy, will you not go one step farther and take your wilful and penitent daughter to your heart again?" What could the poor merchant do in such a predicament, when his Sovereign stooped to beg as a favour what his lonely heart yearned to grant? Before he was many minutes older he was clasping his child to his breast; and was even shaking hands with her graceless husband.