The house by the yew trees was in connection with the great
human endeavour at last. It gained a new vigour thereby.
To Ursula, a child of eight, the increase in magic was
considerable. She heard all the talk, she saw the parish room
fitted up as a workshop. The parish room was a high, stone,
barn-like, ecclesiastical building standing away by itself in
the Brangwens' second garden, across the lane. She was always
attracted by its age and its stranded obsoleteness. Now she
watched preparations made, she sat on the flight of stone steps
that came down from the porch to the garden, and heard her
father and the vicar talking and planning and working. Then an
inspector came, a very strange man, and stayed talking with her
father all one evening. Everything was settled, and twelve boys
enrolled their names. It was very exciting.
But to Ursula, everything her father did was magic. Whether
he came from Ilkeston with news of the town, whether he went
across to the church with his music or his tools on a sunny
evening, whether he sat in his white surplice at the organ on
Sundays, leading the singing with his strong tenor voice, or
whether he were in the workshop with the boys, he was always a
centre of magic and fascination to her, his voice, sounding out
in command, cheerful, laconic, had always a twang in it that
sent a thrill over her blood, and hypnotized her. She seemed to
run in the shadow of some dark, potent secret of which she would
not, of whose existence even she dared not become conscious, it
cast such a spell over her, and so darkened her mind.