CHAPTER XXVIII.
IS IT TOO LATE?
It was the morning of the second day after Alec's return to Wandaroo with his senseless burden in his arms. The sun was stealing into the room through the half drawn curtains of the open windows, the scent of the garden flowers was in the morning air, and from his cage in the verandah a bird was pouring out its heart in song. Breakfast was over two hours ago, and Mrs. Beffling was already coming to inquire "whether the poorly gentlemen were ready for a little lunch." The room was full of pleasant sounds of life and happy talking, for now that Alec, his brown face ruddy with the glow of the sun, came in through the window, all the family was assembled.
Geordie had been allowed to leave his room that morning; he was pale and a little less noisy than was his wont, but, excepting a slight tendency to stagger when he walked, he was otherwise much his old self. He only wanted what Mrs. Beffling called "cockering up a bit," to be as strong and hearty as ever. Yesslett was by his side, proud to be employed by such a hero of romance as Geordie was. He himself was very modest of his own share in the late adventures, though when his aunt had kissed him and thanked him for the service he had rendered them all by helping Alec to escape, he certainly felt a glow of pride and happiness in his heart. He and Macleod had reached home, on the night of the escape from Norton's Gap, only half an hour or so before Alec arrived.
And who is that with one of Alec's coats slung loosely over his bandaged arm? He is standing by the window talking earnestly with Margaret, who, with parted, half smiling lips and downcast eyes, plays with a fragile pink rose from the garden as she listens to his low words. Martin looks pale, and, although standing squarely on his feet, he leans against the window as though he still felt weak. He had lost enough blood, the doctor said, to kill an ordinary man and had been ordered to lie in bed, for some days at least, but Martin was too happy to waste his time a-bed. He thought he had recognised in his sweet nurse's face that which he longed to see there, and had, weak though he was in body, that morning put to the test the question he had not dared to ask when strong and well in his uncle's house, some months before, in Brisbane. He had no ring or gage of love to give when they plighted troth in the garden, but he had pulled a rosebud from the creeping bush that grew against the house and gave it to Margaret.
"It is like the flower of love," he said, "that is daring now to blossom in my heart."
As Alec came in through the open window, and looked from one to the other of them, Margaret slowly blushed from throat to forehead, but raised her honest eyes to his and looked him frankly in the face. She was ashamed of nothing, but was proud of the great gift she gave and took. Crosby laid his hand affectionately on Alec's shoulder, and looked as though he were about to speak, but Alec, who, from what Martin had told him before, knew something of all this, said—
"I understand. Margaret, I am very glad. Shall I tell mother?"
She shook her head.
"No, it will come best from myself. I will tell her at once."