# Hollyhock House/Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“RICH WITH THE SPOILS OF NATURE”
“It certainly is convenient to be grown up,” said Florimel, when the entire family had returned from bidding Lord Kelmscourt a final good-bye at the station. He was gone forever, and, inconsistently, the three girls were truly sorry. He had been so kind, so self-effacing, his trustworthiness was so evident in driving the car, and in looking after its occupants, that if there had been any way of holding him, while at the same time holding him off—from step-fatherhood—the Garden girls would have been delighted to have added him permanently to their lives.
“It’s quite as convenient to be a little short of grown up, often, Mellie. What are you thinking of that makes you say that?” asked Mary, rapidly divesting herself of her gown, and getting into a soft blue lounging gown, as a preparation for throwing herself across the foot of the bed for an hour’s rest before supper.
​Florimel unbraided her black hair and dropped it over the back of her chair, rocking furiously to fan it.
“We’ve been driving and driving, hours, and you and Jane and I were miserable, miserable-minded, because we were so sorry to think Lord Kelmscourt had to go away and be a rejected suitor. Rejected suitors are perfectly tragic in stories! We could hardly answer when he talked to us, and we all acted as if we were babies, standing on one foot with our thumbs in our mouths, we were so awkward and embarrassed. And here was the rejected suitor driving away, as calm as milk, and madrina chatting with him, easy and natural! She was not a bit embarrassed; neither was the R. S.! Of course Englishmen are supposed to be just like Gibraltar, never showing what they feel. But I still think it’s great to be grown up. It carries you through things. I’d love to be able to refuse to marry some one, and then act the next day as if he’d dropped in for tea, and I happened to be out of it! Not so upset; I’ve seen people much more embarrassed when they had company, and something to eat was spoiled, than madrina was to-day! It’s being grown up, and out in society.”
​Jane stood in the doorway laughing; she, too, had on her kimono, and she was wandering and combing her hair, after her incorrigible habit of dressing on the march.
“You’ll have to see that you change as you grow up, Mel, or you’ll never hide your feelings,” she advised. “Well, I’m as sorry as I can be that nice Lord Kelmscourt couldn’t stay—some other way! If only he could have been our chauffeur, a chauffeuring friend, or a friendly chauffeur, living near enough to spend lots of evenings with us, like Mr. and Mrs. Moulton! He’s splendid. And the clever little points he taught me in driving to-day! You can see he’s one of those well-trained, all-around people who do everything well. I’m sure he’s very fond of madrina; he was so willing to give her up.”
“Of all reasons for thinking he liked her a lot!” cried Florimel.
Jane nodded her head hard. “You couldn’t tell how unwilling he felt, but the quietly willing way he acted, I mean,” she persisted. “A cheap little liking might make a row, but a big, deep liking would consider madrina, and not make her uncomfortable.”
Mary raised her head, and poked her pillow ​into a bunch, as she regarded Jane with her customary admiration.
“I wonder if you won’t be a novelist instead of a singer or actress, Janie,” she said. “You do see things!”
“Maybe I’ll be a telescope,” said Jane, turning on her heel and swinging down the hall, singing foolishly:
“Jane could see when she’d look, so she wrote a great book, Jane could see when she’d look, so she wrote a great book.”
The three girls were ready for supper before their mother, and they went out into the garden to wait for her. Whenever the Garden girls had to wait, or had a few spare moments, or had work to do that could be done there, it was as natural for them to stroll out into the garden paths as it would have been for a bird to fly out of an open window.
Mrs. Garden was not long following them. She came running downstairs, all in white, and stole up behind Mary, who had not seen her coming. “Why so grave, my little grandmother?” she asked.
“Was I?” Mary turned to her with a smile that was far from grave. “I was wondering ​whether those hybrid tea roses we planted this spring, which are blooming so well over there, would really prove hardy and survive the winter.”
“Did I ever tell you that the Kelmscourt place, Lord Kelmscourt’s splendid old house, time of George I, has an acre of nothing but roses? Oh, me, it’s wonderful! You really know nothing of gardens over here.” Mrs. Garden dropped her head and sighed wistfully, not an unmistakable sigh, but a delicately done one, conveying a regret that was repressed, struggling to the day.
Instantly Florimel pounced on her, while Mary and Jane exchanged a look of terror.
“Now you’re sorry!” cried Florimel, her voice tragic. “We don’t blame you, but now you’re sorry!” She stalked away, misery in her whole attitude. Mrs. Garden threw up her head with a laugh, her eyes dancing with mischief, swung on the toes of her dainty little slippers like a dancer, and ran after Florimel.
“You little gypsy explosive baby!” she cried, catching her youngest girl around the shoulders and turning her to see her mother’s laughing face. “I thought that would tease you, silly little zanies! Why, girls, can’t you see how ​happy I am? I’m as pleased as if I’d found a lost treasure chest! I was not obliged to leave you, of course, and I didn’t come anywhere near going, but I feel as though I had escaped a great danger! My lassies, I want you to know, once for all, that I’d rather be your mother than anything else on earth. I’ve said that before, but do realize how true it is! And I love the old Garden house and the old Garden garden, and I’d be horribly jealous for you of any interest that would divide me. I want to be yours, entirely yours! I’ve found it’s the best thing in all the world to be a mother—even a toy-mother! Come, hug me!” Mrs. Garden held out her arms, laughing, but with the merry eyes that called to Mary and Jane, as well as to Florimel, shining through moisture on their lashes.
“Well, Lynette Garden! You bet we’ll hug you!” cried Florimel, and no one felt that the slangy response was blameworthy this time. There seemed to be need of vigorous expression.
The Garden girls crushed the little white-clad figure in a threefold, bearlike embrace. The day was won, their mother was won; the last uncertainty as to her loving them well enough to be happy with them, at the price of the loss of her old world of pleasures and admiration, was ​settled. The strange relationship, in which the daughters were almost as much their mother’s mother as she was their mother; the protecting, petting, playful love they gave her, the admiring, dependent, comrade love which she gave them, was cemented, assured forever. It was an exceedingly happy, radiant Garden family that came in to supper when Anne called the four young women.
After supper, in the twilight of the garden, as usual, the mother and the girls, with Win—and Chum, as always, at Florimel’s feet—sat expecting Mr. and Mrs. Moulton. They heard Mark’s halting step coming down the street, unaccompanied. Mark’s lameness was less visible than audible. It swayed his body but slightly, but it gave an irregular beat to his footfall.
“Mark is coming without them!” said Mary.
Mark came in at the side gate and across the path to the group. “Thought I’d find you here,” he said. “Aren’t you chilly?”
“Not yet, but we shall be soon,” said Mrs. Garden. “It was uncomfortably warm in the sunshine to-day, but there’s a chilliness creeping into the evening.”
“September,” suggested Mark. “Summer’s ​over; though it takes the sun awhile to find it out, the stars know it. I’ve a good deal to tell you. May I bring a chair?”
“With my help, Markums,” said Win, rising to take one arm of the garden chair which Mark went over to fetch.
“Oh, why not go in at once? We shall only have to move after Mark gets under way with his story,” said Florimel, who hated to be interrupted when she was interested.
“No; let’s cling to every possible moment of our last garden evenings this year!” cried Jane, and Mark dropped into the chair which Win considerately halted near Mary.
“I don’t know how to tell you,” said Mark, as they all looked at him, waiting for him to begin. “I had a birthday to-day.”
“And never told us!” Jane reproached him.
“I don’t see how we happened not to have found out your date. We always keep the birthdays; we love to. Why didn’t you let us know, Mark?” Mary exclaimed.
“Because you’d have bought me one of those girl-chosen neckties no fellow ever wants to wear, Mary,” Mark teased her.
“Are you nineteen to-day, Mark?” asked Mrs. Garden.
​“That’s all, Mrs. Garden, but don’t you think I’m pretty far along for my age?” asked Mark. “Mr. and Mrs. Moulton had found out my birthday date some time ago. Dear Garden blossoms, they’ve given me a present.” The boy stopped short; evidently he was profoundly moved.
“Oh, Mark, what?” cried Mary, leaning forward, catching his excitement.
“A present with a condition attached to it, but such a condition!” Mark resumed. “They have asked me to promise to devote my life to carrying on Mr. Moulton’s work; with him, while he lives, for him after he is dead. Mr. Moulton thinks that I shall be competent to do this, and he has asked me to undertake it. It’s a great thing—both ways. A great thing to do and a great opportunity for me.” Again Mark paused.
“It’s big, old Mark!” said Win. “But the present in return?”
“If I will accept Mr. Moulton’s trust in me and devote my life to his work, he—they, his wife and he—will adopt me legally, not taking their name, you know, but as their heir. They’ll make me their son. It’s—it’s awful!” Mark choked, and his head went down on the back of his chair, to which he turned his face, utterly unable to command himself any longer.
​“Mark, dear, it’s not awful; it’s beautiful! Beautiful both ways!” cried Jane.
“I don’t know whether I’m more glad for you or for the dear Moultons,” said Mary.
“You don’t have to be glad separately; it’s all one,” said Florimel wisely.
“Old chap, I’m too glad to say how glad!” cried Win, slapping Mark on the back with such vigour that it had a tonic effect.
Mrs. Garden had not spoken, but the touch of her hand on Mark’s shoulder was eloquent of her rejoicing sympathy.
Mark faced them all again, wiping his eyes, unashamed. “I didn’t cry when I was down and out,” he said. “A fellow doesn’t feel so much like crying when he’s got his teeth set, and he’s standing things. But this—this heavenly kindness gets me.”
“It would any one,” said Mary. “But it isn’t all kindness, Mark. Mr. Moulton was anxious, troubled when he could not see any one who would be likely to finish what he had begun; you know what that means to a scientist, for you are one yourself, in your younger way. And Mrs. Moulton has been lonely. I can see that she leans on you as much, in her way, as her husband does for the botanical work. ​They’re very fond of you and this is just as good for them as for you—not that I want to belittle what they do for you, but it wouldn’t be right for you to think of it as in the least a charity.”
“I don’t, Mary; I see it just as you do,” said Mark. “But you can’t understand, not even you people who are so quick to understand things, what it means to belong. My father and I were chums. When he died it wasn’t so much that I was left poor, when I had supposed we were well off, but the relatives I had rather did me, and I didn’t belong to a soul. Take a dog; it isn’t enough to feed him. A good dog craves a master, he’s got to belong to some one. I knew a lost dog once that some people fed; he wasn’t hungry, but he was heart-broken till he was adopted by some one who loved him. In a week you wouldn’t have known him; chirked right up, belonged again, you see. Now if a dog feels that, so does a boy. You’ve all been like old friends to me, the Moultons couldn’t have been better, but I didn’t belong to any one. Mr. and Mrs. Moulton told me about this only a little while ago, at supper time, but I know it’s making me over already. Oh, my soul, what a birthday present!”
“You’re going to accept the conditions?” ​hinted Mrs. Garden, with her little look of mischief.
“Accept them! I don’t believe I am; I think they simply swallow me up. I would rather do something of the sort Mr. Moulton is doing than be Romulus and Remus and found Rome! Think of it! I used to intend to go to college, and then devote my life to science, but father was killed in the fire and the whole game was up, college and affording to work at a science—botany—and all! And then I wandered into Vineclad, looking for a bookkeeper’s job which I heard was here, and walked right into the fulfilment of my ambition! Talk about our lives being laid out for us! Did you ever know anything like it? And Mr. and Mrs. Moulton’s adopted son! The finest people! And everything on earth I could desire made possible, just when no one could have seen a chance for me!” Mark’s eyes as they rested on Mary were so alight that hers fell.
“Lucky isn’t the only one lucky,” said Florimel, rising with Lucky in her arms; the cat always found her after a while and cuddled down in her lap wherever she was seated. Florimel held him close to Mark’s face. “Kiss him and tell him you and he are twin brothers in lucki​ness! But don’t you forget, Mark Walpole, that Florimel Garden made you come home with her that day, you and Chum, both.”
“Indeed I’ll not forget it, Miss Blackbird,” said Mark. “But I won’t kiss Lucky; I’ll shake his paw instead. We are triplets in luck, Lucky, Chum, and I! And it is the cold fact that the littlest Garden girl was our mascot, all three of us.”
“The littlest Garden girl can be some good, if she is only the gypsy and the blackbird, dancing and whistling,” said Florimel with dignity. “Here come Mr. and Mrs. Moulton. We’d better go in; Mrs. Moulton can’t sit out so late, now.”
“They let me come ahead of them to skim my own cream,” said Mark. “Bless their splendid old hearts! I hope I’ll never fail them.”
“Sons that fail usually walk into failure. You won’t fail them, Mark,” said Mrs. Garden, rising and helplessly trying to draw her scarf around her, to which end her three girls, Win, and Mark jumped to help her.
The Gardens and Mark met Mr. and Mrs. Moulton at the steps. Mr. Moulton smiled at Mary with the peculiar tenderness his eyes held for her, mingled with a quizzical look that was new.
​“How do you like my son Mark? This is his first birthday; it was Mark Walpole’s nineteenth birthday, Marygold,” he said.
“Dear Mr. Moulton, we never, never shall be able to say how glad we all are; as glad as we can be for you, too,” said Mary, seizing her guardian by both hands.
“Ah, then I can see that you like my son Mark, for I’m sure you would not rejoice if I had a son whom you disapproved,” returned Mr. Moulton, swinging both of Mary’s arms by the extended hands, and ending by laying her hands on his shoulders while he kissed her cheek.
“I’ve liked Mark from the first time I saw him,” said Mrs. Moulton, temperately, but with a look at Mark that made her words sound warmer than their registered temperature. “When he came over from your house to talk to Mr. Moulton, he turned back to straighten a rug, and he helped me to catch my canary, which had flown out of his cage; he handled the little creature gently and wooed him with soft notes. There’s a boy, I said to myself, who is orderly; witness the rug. Gentle, patient; witness the bird. Kind and respectful; witness his bothering about the concerns of a woman of my age. I decided on the spot that Mark was a ​good boy; of course it was easy to see that he was well-bred. I’ve never altered my opinion.”
Mark looked at her, rosy red even to the tips of his ears. He went up to her with an entirely new freedom and affection of manner.
“See here, Mother Moulton,” he said. “You mustn’t praise me to total strangers!”
It was not hard to see that Mrs. Moulton was delighted by this little speech. Not less than Mark she felt—the childless woman in a happy home, and with a husband such as few women can boast—that it was a great deal “to belong,” to belong in a motherly way, to a fine boy.
“I’ve told Mark that I will not ask him to take my name,” said Mr. Moulton. “He is to be my son, inheriting my property and my work, fulfilling what I cannot finish. But he loved his father, and I should not wish to supplant him, even if I could, which would be impossible nonsense to discuss with a boy worth his salt. But as we all know that when ‘The Study of the Flora of New York’ is published, long after I am dead, it will be under my name and Mark’s, as joint authors—I believe I’d be glad if he would consent to become Mark Moulton Walpole. Would you object, Mark? Mary, urge my request.”
​“It needs no urging, sir,” said Mark. “I’d be glad to take your name. There’s no way I can express fully how much I owe you, nor how I’m yours. That goes a little toward doing it.”
“As to owing, that’s nonsense. We serve one another, we three members of the Moulton family. It’s not nonsense to feel that you belong to us beyond verbal labelling. It may be nonsense, but it is true, that I’d like my name to be incorporated with yours, so that when the book appears, compiled by Austin Moulton and Mark Moulton Walpole, those who see it will recognize you as my kin. As you surely are, my boy, though you did not spring from my stock. We are of the same botanical genus—and genius!—at least. Much obliged for your instant consent to grafting my name on yours. Come home, Mark; Mrs. Moulton is waiting.” Mr. Moulton laid his hand on Mark’s shoulder and the elder man and the younger one looked into each other’s eyes with a smile that said everything.
The Garden girls, Mrs. Garden, and Win went with them to the gate. Florimel chased Mark with the intention of boxing his ears twenty times, the birthday chastisement, with “one to grow on.” She was fleet-footed, but ​Mark out-dodged her. Florimel hung, breathless and defeated, on the gate watching the Moulton party down the road. Mrs. Garden, Mary, Jane, and Win waved their hands just as wildly as Florimel did, till the three visitors were out of sight. Then Florimel stepped off of the gate and voiced the sentiments of her family in her own way.
“Isn’t it hallelujahfied? Makes you want to sob your cheers, you’re so stirred-up glad!” she said.