And when； with his second sense of another presence； he knew she
was ing； he was satisfied； he was at rest。 When he was alone
with her； he did not want to take notice； to talk。 He wanted to
live unthinking； with her presence flickering upon him。
He always went in silence。 The child would push open the shed
door； and see him working by lamplight； his sleeves rolled back。
His clothes hung about him； carelessly； like mere wrapping。
Inside； his body was concentrated with a flexible； charged power
all of its own； isolated。 From when she was a tiny child Ursula
could remember his forearm； with its fine black hairs and its
electric flexibility； working at the bench through swift；
unnoticeable movements； always ambushed in a sort of
silence。
She hung a moment in the door of the shed； waiting for him to
notice her。 He turned； his black； curved eyebrows arching
slightly。
〃Hullo； Twittermiss！〃
And he closed the door behind her。 Then the child was happy
in the shed that smelled of sweet wood and resounded to the
noise of the plane or the hammer or the saw； yet was charged
with the silence of the worker。 She played on； intent and
absorbed； among the shavings and the little nogs of wood。 She
never touched him： his feet and legs were near； she did not
approach them。
She liked to flit out after him when he was going to church
at night。 If he were going to be alone； he swung her over the
wall； and let her e。
Again she was transported when the door was shut behind them；
and they two inherited the big； pale； void place。 She would
watch him as he lit the organ candles； wait whilst he began his
practicing his tunes； then she ran foraging here and there； like
a kitten playing by herself in the darkness with eyes dilated。
The ropes hung vaguely； twining on the floor； from the bells in
the tower； and Ursula always wanted the fluffy； red…and…white；
or blue…and…white rope…grips。 But they were above her。
Sometimes her mother came to claim her。 Then the child was
seized with resentment。 She passionately resented her mother's
superficial authority。 She wanted to assert her own
detachment。
He； however； also gave her occasional cruel shocks。 He let
her play about in the church； she rifled foot…stools and
hymn…books and cushions； like a bee among flowers； whilst the
organ echoed away。 This continued for some weeks。 Then the
charwoman worked herself up into a frenzy of rage； to dare to
attack Brangwen； and one day descended on him like a harpy。 He
wilted away； and wanted to break the old beast's neck。
Instead he came glowering in fury to the house； and turned on
Ursula。
〃Why； you tiresome little monkey； can't you even e to
church without pulling the place to bits？〃
His voice was harsh and cat…like； he was blind to the child。
She shrank away in childish anguish and dread。 What was it； what
awful thing was it？
The mother turned with her calm； almost superb manner。
〃What has she done； then？〃
〃Done？ She shall go in the church no more； pulling and
littering and destroying。〃
The wife slowly rolled her eyes and lowered her eyelids。
〃What has she destroyed； then？〃
He did not know。
〃I've just had Mrs。 Wilkinson at me；〃 he cried； 〃with a list
of things she's done。〃
Ursula withered under the contempt and anger of the 〃she〃； as
he spoke of her。
〃Send Mrs。 Wilkinson here to me with a list of the things
she's done；〃 said Anna。 〃I am the one to hear that。〃
〃It's not the things the child has done；〃 continued the
mother； 〃that have put you out so much； it's because you can't
bear being spoken to by that old woman。 But you haven't the
courage to turn on her when she attacks you； you bring your rage
here。〃
He relapsed into silence。 Ursula knew that he was wrong。 In
the outside； upper world； he was wrong。 Already came over the
child the cold sense of the impersonal world。 There she knew her
mother was right。 But still her heart clamoured after her
father； for him to be right； in his dark； sensuous underworld。
But he was angry； and went his way in blackness and brutal
silence again。
The child ran about absorbed in life； quiet； full of
amusement。 She did not notice things； nor changes nor
alterations。 One day she would find daisies in the grass；
another day； apple…blossoms would be sprinkled white on the
ground； and she would run among it； for pleasure because it was
there。 Yet again birds would be pecking at the cherries； her
father would throw cherries down from the tree all round her on
the garden。 Then the fields were full of hay。
She did not remember what had been nor what would be； the
outside things were there each day。 She was always herself； the
world outside was accidental。 Even her mother was accidental to
her： a condition that happened to endure。
Only her father occupied any permanent position in the
childish consciousness。 When he came back she remembered vaguely
how he had gone away； when he went away she knew vaguely that
she must wait for his ing back。 Whereas her mother； returning
from an outing； merely became present； there was no reason for
connecting her with some previous departure。
The return or the departure of the father was the one event
which the child remembered。 When he came； something woke up in
her； some yearning。 She knew when he was out of joint or
irritable or tired： then she was uneasy； she could not rest。
When he was in the house； the child felt full and warm； rich
like a creature in the sunshine。 When he was gone； she was
vague； forgetful。 When he scolded her even； she was often more
aware of him than of herself。 He was her strength and her
greater self。
Ursula was three years old when another baby girl was born。
Then the two small sisters were much together； Gudrun and
Ursula。 Gudrun was a quiet child who played for hours alone；
absorbed in her fancies。 She was brown…haired； fair…skinned；
strangely placid； almost passive。 Yet her will was indomitable；
once set。 From the first she followed Ursula's lead。 Yet she was
a thing to herself； so that to watch the two together was
strange。 They were like two young animals playing together but
not taking real notice of each other。 Gudrun was the mother's
favourite……except that Anna always lived in her latest
baby。
The burden of so many lives depending on him wore the youth
down。 He had his work in the office； which was done purely by
effort of will： he had his barren passion for the church； he had
three young children。 Also at this time his health was not good。
So he was haggard and irritable； often a pest in the house。 Then
he was told to go to his woodwork； or to the church。
Between him and the little Ursula there came into being a
strange alliance。 They were aware of each other。 He knew the
child was always on his side。 But in his consciousness he
counted it for nothing。 She was always for him。 He took it for
granted。 Yet his life was based on her； even whilst she was a
tiny child； on her support and her accord。
Anna continued in her violent trance of motherhood； always
busy； often harassed； but always contained in her trance of
motherhood。 She seemed to exist in her own violent fruitfulness；
and it was as if the sun shone tropically on her。 Her colour was
bright； her eyes full of a fecund gloom； her brown hair tumbled
loosely over her ears。 She had a look of richness。 No
responsibility； no sense of duty troubled her。 The outside；
public life was less than nothing to her； really。
Whereas when； at twenty…six； he found himself father of four
children； with a wife who lived intrinsically like the ruddiest
lilies of the field； he let the weight of responsibility press
on him and drag him。 It was then that his child Ursula strove to
be with him。 She was with him； even as a baby of four； when he
was irritable and shouted and made the household unhappy。 She
suffered from his shouting； but somehow it was not really him。
She wanted it to be over； she wanted to resume her normal
connection with him。 When he was disagreeable； the child echoed
to the crying of some need in him； and she responded blindly。
Her heart followed him as if he had some tie with her； and some
love which he could not deliver。 Her heart followed him
persistently； in its love。
But there was the dim； childish sense of her own smallness
and inadequacy； a fatal sense of worthlessness。 She could not do
anything； she was not enough。 She could not be important to him。
This knowledge deadened her from the first。
Still she set towards him like a quivering needle。 All her
life was directed by her awareness of him； her wakefulness to
his being。 And she was against her mother。
Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness woke up。
But for him； she might have gone on like the other children；
Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine； one with the flowers and
insects and playthings； having no existence apart from the
concrete object of her attention。 But her father came too near
to her。 The clasp of his hands and the power of his breast woke
her up almost in pain from the transient unconsciousness of
childhood。 Wide…eyed； unseeing； she was awake before she knew
how to see。 She was wakened too soon。 Too soon the call had e
to her； when she w