[Illustration: THE OLD GREY HOUSE.]
Among the ancient, fortified manors of the West Country there is a
pleasant ruin whose history is innocent of event, yet glorified with a
noble name or two that rings down through the centuries harmoniously.
You shall find Compton Castle where the hamlet of Lower Marldon
straggles through a deep and fertile valley not many miles from Torbay.
Compton's time-stained face and crown of ivy rise now above a plat of
flowers. Trim borders of familiar things blossom within their box-hedges
before the entrance, and at this autumn hour fat dahlias, spiring
hollyhocks, and rainbows of asters and pansies wind a girdle beneath the
walls.
It is a ruin of wide roofs and noble frontage. Above its windows
sinister bartizans frown grimly; the portals yawn vast and deep; only
the chapel-windows open frankly upon the face of the dwelling; but
above, all apertures are narrow, up to the embattled towers.
In the lap of many an enfolding hill Compton huddles its aged fabric,
and, despite certain warlike additions, can have risen for no purpose of
offence, for the land rakes it on every side; it stands at the bottom of
a great green cup, whose slopes are crowned with fir and beech, whose
sides now glimmer under stubble of corn, green of roots, and wealth of
wide orchards, bright with the ripening harvest. Close at hand men make
ready the cider-presses again, and the cooper's mallet echoes among his
barrels.
Much of the castle still stands, and the entrance hall, chapel, priest's
chamber, and kitchen, with its gigantic hearth and double chimney, are
almost intact. A mouldering roof of lichened slates still covers more
than half of the ruin; but the banqueting hall has vanished, and many a
tower and turret, under their weight of ivy, lift ragged and broken to
the sky. Where now jackdaws chiefly dwell and bats sidle through the
naked windows at call of dusk; where wind and rain find free entrance
and pellitory-of-the-wall hangs its foliage for tapestry, with toadflax
and blue speedwell; where Nature labours unceasing from fern-crowned
battlement to mossy plinth, there dwelt of old the family of Gilbert.
One Joan Compton conveyed the manor for her partage in the second
Edward's reign; and of their posterity are justly remembered and
revered the sons of Otho Gilbert, whose lady--a maiden of the
Champernownes--bore not only Humphrey, the adventurer, who discovered
Gilbert's Straits and founded the first British settlement of
Newfoundland; but also his more famous uterine brother, Walter Ralegh.
For upon Otho Gilbert's passing, his dame mated with Walter Ralegh of
Fardel, and by him brought into the world the poet, statesman, soldier,
courtier, explorer, and master-jewel of Elizabeth's Court. A noble
matron surely must have been that Katherine, mother of two such sons;
and less only in honour to these knights were Sir Humphrey's brothers,
of whom Sir John, his senior, rendered himself acceptable to God and man
by manifold charities and virtues; while Adrian Gilbert is declared a
gentleman very eminent for his skill in mines and matters of engineering
and science.
Within these walls tradition brings Sir Walter and Sir Humphrey
together. We may reasonably see them here discussing their far-reaching
projects, while still the world smiled and both basked in the sunshine
of Royal favour. Yet, at the end of their triumphs, from our standpoint
in time, we can mark, stealing along the avenue of years, the shadow,
hideous in one case and violent in both, destined presently to put a
period to each great life.
When the little _Squirrel_, a vessel of but ten tons burthen, was
bearing Sir Humphrey upon his last voyage from Newfoundland, before his
vision there took shape the spectre of a mighty lion gliding over the
sea, "yawning and gaping wide as he went." Upon which portent there rose
the storm whereby he perished. Yet the knight's memory is green, and his
golden anchor, with pearl at peak, badge of a Sovereign's grace, is not
forgot; nor his crest of a squirrel, whose living prototype still haunts
the fir trees beside the castle; nor his motto, worthy of so righteous a
genius and steadfast a man: "_Malem mori, quam mutare_."
The navigator passed to his restless resting-place in 1584; his
half-brother, still busy with the colonisation of Virginia, did not
kneel at Westminster and brush his grey hair from the path of the axe
until Fate had juggled with him for further four-and-thirty years. Then
his sword and pen were laid down; his wise head fell low; and the
portion of the great: well-doing, ill report, was won.
At gloaming time, when the jackdaws make an end; when the owl glides
out from his tower to the trees and the beetles boom, twilight shadows
begin to move and the old grey house broods, like a sentient thing, upon
the past; but no unhappy spirits haunt its desolation, and the mighty
dead, despite their taking off, revisit these glimpses of the moon to
clasp pale hands no more. Abundant life flows to the gate and circles
the walls. Arable land ascends the hills, and the clank of plough and
cry of man to his horses will soon be heard in the stubble of the corn.
The orchards flash ruddy and gold; to-morrow they will be naked and
grey; and then again they will foam with flowers and roll in a white sea
to the castle walls. Time rings his rounds and forgets not this
sequestered hollow. Today, beside the entrance-gate of Compton, the
husbandman mounts his nag from that same "upping-stock" whence a Gilbert
and a Ralegh leapt to horse in England's age of gold.