They lifted her into the brougham and placed themselves one on each side of her. Then Britton got in, and they drove off. A string of white tulle lay on the garden path. END OF BOOK THREE BOOK FOUR MATURITY (1879-1900) XX I. The scent of hay came through the open window of her room. Clearer and finer than the hay smell of the Essex fields. She shut her eyes to live purely in that one sweet sense; and opened them to look at the hill, the great hill heaved up against the east. You had to lean far out of the window to see it all. It came on from the hidden north, its top straight as a wall against the sky. Then the long shoulder, falling and falling. Then the thick trees. A further hill cut the trees off from the sky. Roddy was saying something. Sprawling out from the corner of the window-seat, he stared with sulky, unseeing eyes into the little room. "Roddy, what did you say that hill was?" "Greffington Edge. You aren't listening." His voice made a jagged tear in the soft, quiet evening. "And the one beyond it?" "Sarrack. Why can't you listen?" 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. Straight, naked houses. Grey walls of houses, enclosing the wide oblong Green. Dark grey stone roofs, close-clipped lest the wind should lift them. On the Green two grey stone pillar fountains; a few wooden benches; telegraph poles. Under her window a white road curling up to the platform. Straight, naked houses, zigzagging up beside it. Down below, where the white road came from, the long grey raking bridge, guarded by a tall ash-tree. Roddy's jabbing voice went on and on: