A yew tree of immense size stood in one corner,
and was by tradition associated with the fortunes of the family. Though
the old trunk was much decayed, yet there were still green and
flourishing shoots; so that the superstitious elders said the luck of
the house was returning.
Within, the walls of the church were covered with marble slabs, and the
space was reduced by the tombs of the Dessants, one with a recumbent
figure; there were two brasses level with the pavement, and in the
chancel hung the faded hatchments of the dead. For the pedigree went
back to the Battle of Hastings, and there was scarce room for more
heraldry. From week's end to week's end the silent nave and aisles
remained empty; the chirp of the sparrows was the only sound to be heard
there. There being no house attached to the living, the holder could not
reside; so the old church slumbered in the midst of the meadows, the
hedges, and woods, day after day, year after year.
You could sit on the low churchyard wall in early summer under the shade
of the elms in the hedge, whose bushes and briars came right over, and
listen to the whistling of the blackbirds or the varied note of the
thrush; you might see the whitethroat rise and sing just over the hedge,
or look upwards and watch the swallows and swifts wheeling, wheeling,
wheeling in the sky. No one would pass to disturb your meditations,
whether simply dreaming of nothing in the genial summer warmth, or
thinking over the course of history since the prows of the Norman ships
grounded on the beach.
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