Greffington Edge. Sarrack. Sarrack.
Green fields coming on from the north, going up and up, netted in with the strong net of the low grey walls that held them together, that kept them safe. Above them thin grass, a green bloom on the grey face of the hill. Above the thin grass a rampart of grey cliffs.
Roddy wouldn't look at the hill.
"I tell you," he said, "you'll loathe the place when you've lived a week in it."
The thick, rich trees were trying to climb the Edge, but they couldn't get higher than the netted fields.
The lean, ragged firs had succeeded. No. Not quite. They stood out against the sky, adventurous mountaineers, roped together, leaning forward with the effort.
"It's Mamma's fault," Roddy was saying. "Papa would have gone anywhere, but she would come to this damned Morfe."
"Don't. Don't—" Her mind beat him off, defending her happiness. He would kill it if she let him. Coming up from Reyburn on the front seat of the Morfe bus, he had sulked. He smiled disagreeable smiles while the driver pointed with his whip and told her the names of the places. Renton Moor. Renton Church. Morfe, the grey village, stuck up on its green platform under the high, purple mound of Karva Hill.
Garthdale in front of it, Rathdale at its side, meeting in the fields below its bridge.
Morfe was beautiful. She loved it with love at first sight, faithless to
Ilford.