The sea had answered his questionings.
Thus would he serve the Service.
VIII.
It was late in the forenoon when Trevelyan awoke. He lay still awhile listening to the beat of the sea on the crags. The music of the waters had been his reveille since a child, when he had used to get up with the break of the day. The old triumphant note that had been missing in the sea's song so long was in it to-day. He did not define it, but he was acutely conscious of its presence, and it haunted him while dressing and all during his lonely breakfast.
Then he went up-stairs and got his Gladstone and rummaged through his bureau drawers and closets, preparing for a short journey. Later, he sent for Mactier.
The old man came at once and stood in the doorway respectful and silent, watching his master pack.
"Is that you, Mactier? Well, I'm off again. I'm going to run over to Mr. John's. I'll be back day after to-morrow or the next—sure."
Mactier twirled his cap around and around with his hands, and looked down at it hard.
"Ay, sir."
"I'll come right back from there," Trevelyan went on, sorting collars, as he spoke, "and then I'll go over the accounts with you and see what the tenants want. I'm going back to India as soon as I can get there."