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Updated: June 3, 2025
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.
The light from the west poured itself in vivid green down the valley below them, broke itself into purple on Karva Hill to the north above Morfe, and was beaten back in subtle blue and violet from the stone rampart of the Edge. Nicholas had been developing, in fancy, the strategic resources of the country. Guns on Renton Moor, guns along Greffington Edge, on Sarrack Moor.
Peacock of Sarrack was dead, and Dr. Kendal was the oldest man in the Dale. He was not afraid of death; he was only afraid of dying before Mr. Peacock died. Mamma had finished building the rockery in the garden. You had carried all the stones. There were no more stones to carry. That was all that had happened in the year and nine months since Mark had gone. To you nothing happened.
From a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief he disentangled a stringy claw-like hand and held it up with an effort. "Ye've come to see the old man, have ye? Ay. Eh." "He's the oldest in the Dale," Miss Kendal said. "Except Mr. Peacock of Sarrack." "Don't you forget Mr. Peacock of Sarrack, or he'll be so set-up there'll be no bearing him," Dr. Charles said. "Miss Mary, will you sit by Father?"
And people staring at him. He would be well if he could get away. Then he would be well if he could marry Dorsy. So the first year passed. And the second. And the third year. She was five and twenty. She thought: "I shall die before I'm fifty. I've lived half my life and done nothing." Old Dr. Kendal was dead. He had had nothing more to live for. He had beaten Mr. Peacock of Sarrack.
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