PART I

SIR ADRIAN LANDALE, LIGHT-KEEPER OF SCARTHEY

We all were sea-swallowed, though some cast again;

And by that destiny to perform an act,

Whereof what's past is Prologue.

The Tempest

[1]

[1]

THE LIGHT OF SCARTHEY

CHAPTER I

THE PEEL OF SCARTHEY

He makes a solitude and calls it peace.

Byron.

Alone in the south and seaward corner of the great bight on the Lancastrian coast—mournfully alone some say, gloriously alone to my thinking—rises in singular unexpected fashion the islet of Scarthey; a green oasis secure on its white rocky seat amidst the breezy wilderness of sands and waters.

There is, in truth, more sand than water at most times round Scarthey. For miles northward the wet strand stretches its silent expanse, tawny at first, then merging into silver grey as in the dim distance it meets the shallow advance of briny ripple. Wet sand, brown and dull, with here and there a brighter trail as of some undecided river seeking an aimless way, spreads westward, deep inland, until stopped in a jagged line by bluffs that spring up abruptly in successions of white rocky steps and green terraces.

Turn you seaward, at low tide there lies sand again and shingle (albeit but a narrow beach, for here a depth of water sinks rapidly) laved with relentless obstinacy by long, furling, growling rollers that are grey at their sluggish base and emerald-lighted at their curvetting 

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