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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“AND FEEL THAT I AM HAPPIER THAN I KNOW”
The Garden girls had always kept Garden Day, at least since they had been old enough to devise it. It was the ingathering feast of their garden, the day when the dahlia, gladiola, and other summer bulbs were taken up, and the annual additions to the tulips, daffodils, narcissi, and crocuses were made. When the delicate plants which were worth saving were potted to be housed, the autumn seeds sown for spring growing, the pansies put to bed under leaves and straw, the roses laid down and covered, the stalks of vines straw-wound, and plants needing protection straw-thatched. No gardener was allowed to perform these tasks alone. Mary, Jane, and Florimel had insisted, from the time that the older two were small girls, and Florimel was not much more than a baby, on bidding their garden this autumnal farewell. For, though they would wander through its paths during the warm days which stray into November, and, even in the winter, spend hours out of doors, this day marked the formal closing of the garden. They observed this feast on the 30th of October, when the weather allowed, or when it did not fall on a Sunday; in case of storm, or when the day came on Sunday, the garden day was kept on November 2d.
“It should be either the eve of the eve of Allhallow, or on All Souls’ Day,” Mary had decided when they were discussing the permanent date of their observance. “We can’t have it on Halloween, because there is likely to be something going on that we’d want to take part in. But we ought to keep our garden day near to All Saints’, or else right on All Souls’ Day. Those are harvest days, you see: the ingathering of beautiful characters. I think we ought to keep our beautiful flowers’ day at that time.”