AN OLD STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 913, 5 March 1930, Page 7

AN OLD STORY

I One day in the reign of Good Queen Bess John Spencer, knight and merchant prince, came quickly down the stairs of his fine house in Islington. He was dressed in fur-lined slippers and long wasp-waisted gown, for the air was cold and it was very early in the morning—too early for the queer big breakfast of bread, beef and ale which was usual in those times. From his bedroom window Sir John had seen the baker’s boy coming, carrying a large basket of loaves hot from the oven; and the sight rejoiced him. He was one who liked to begin his day as early as possible, and to be busy every hour of it. He would not have been the wealthiest of London merchants else. He also was a man who could see merit and liked to reward it. His intention at that moment was to seek out the baker’s boy and give him praise and a sixpence for his unusually early hours. With servants fleeing before and after the eye of the master, Sir John Spencer found the baker’s apprentice at the buttery bar in the act of unloading his enormous basket of loaves. Graciously Sir John spoke to him and presented him with the money; but the youth in his turn stood mumchance, his head turned away, with never a word to say either of thanks or reverence. He had a good reason to be struck dumb. The t-"o men had met before, though the elder did not recognise the younger in his floury disguise. Last time he had seen Master Baker he had not been wearing a russet jacket and blue sleeves, but a silk doublet and trunk hose, and a pearshaped ruby dangling from his ear; but fo-’ all his finery and good looks Sir John had forbidden him to come into his presence again. Lifting his empty basket on his back, the youth made haste to remove himself from that stern if near-sighted gaze; but the knight was already bustling away, his mind intent on another errand. Down a back passage went the baker, no one following; at the foot of a narrow flight of stairs he halted, whistling long and low. A foot came down the steps, tripping lightly this time. A little lady appeared, resplendent in a stiff jewelled stomacher and a spreading flame-coloured gown. Her dark, petulant beauty was set off by an immense yellow-starched ruff shaped like a Catherine wheel. Silk stockings with golden clocks gleamed over li*»r high chopines (or clogs). Tall as were those chopines. their wearer was tiny, a minute majesty like Titania, yet the baker took excepton to her size. “Sweetheart! The very biggest ruff and the broadest farthingale in your wardrobe!” he exclaimed. “They will overbrim the basket. I shall never be able to pack you inside. Make speed and doff them. My coach and horses wait outside. We should already be on our way to Compton Wynyates.” There was no help for it. Willynilly off the trappings had to come. In her rich embroidered undergown the future countess climbed into the basket and was carried away from her father's house as lightly as a feather. After a while the search for the darling only child, the spoilt heiress, began; but all that yas found of her was a big yellow ruff. a kicked-off pair of chopines, and a tumbled heap of farthingale on the stairs. Great was the wrath of Sir John Spencer. For a year he refused his forgiveness to the married lovers, though there was nothing really against the match. The disguised baker was to become the first earl of Northampton afterwards. He was the great-grandson of the builder of Compton Wynyates, page of Henry the Eight* He and his descendants had always kept the royal favour. and Queen Elizabeth reconciled the father to the runaways. She and the merchant stood as godparents to the first of the Compton’s brave sons.