THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE GOLDEN POPPY
 
 THE GOLDEN POPPY 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 JEFFREY DEPREND 
 
 Author of "Embers" 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 J. W. WALLACE & COMPANY 
 1920 
 
 A II Rights Reserved
 
 Copyright. 1920 
 By J. W. WALLACE & COMPANY
 
 3 01 
 
 mu ^ 
 THE GOLDEN POPPY 
 
 JEFFREY DEPREND 
 
 5G3S07
 
 The Golden Poppy 
 
 CHAPTER ONE. 
 
 She gazed through the open window of 
 the coach and waved a small gloved hand 
 at the two black figures standing apart 
 on the skirt of the throng. 
 
 Conflicting emotions struggled within 
 her. 
 
 The hour of parting had come. The 
 rending asunder of girlhood ties. The 
 long-awaited freedom of young woman 
 hood. 
 
 The sisters were smiling, wistfully, she 
 thought, and waving a timid farewell 
 with their thin, wax-like hands. The 
 brass crucifixes hanging from their cein- 
 tures seemed grotesquely large and the 
 contrast between the white linen of their 
 
 [9]
 
 io The Golden Poppy 
 
 stiff, starched bibs and the funereal black 
 of their habits more pronounced. 
 
 A whistle shrieked nearby and a blind 
 ing belch of smoke, swift and ruthless, 
 shut out the scene before her. 
 
 The train made its way over a maze of 
 tracks and, gathering speed, passed on 
 out through a narrow, tortuous lane, into 
 the suburbs of the city. 
 
 She closed the window and settled back 
 into the hot upholstered seat. 
 
 Some magazines, which she had pur 
 chased at the station news-stand, lay be 
 fore her, where the porter had placed 
 them, forgotten in the rush of unbidden 
 emotions which assailed her. 
 
 A dove-gray parasol, edged with a 
 heavy band of old rose, rested easily 
 across the top of a walrus bag of dull 
 black, beside which stood a large wicker 
 basket of assorted fruits covered with a 
 screen of red gauze. 
 
 There were some packages, besides, 
 which told plainly of a recent shopping 
 tour in the region of the great department
 
 The Golden Poppy n 
 
 stores of the city. A box of bonbons lay, 
 alluring, beside her, offering its sweets 
 for the taking. 
 
 But, her swirling thoughts lifted her 
 far and away from her surroundings and 
 bore her, in dream-laden fancy, over a 
 panorama of pleasing vistas. 
 
 It was June. 
 
 Habitants, going about their work in 
 the fields, turned their backs upon their 
 labors, to follow the progress of the train 
 as it rolled gracefully over their narrow 
 stretch of vision into the welcoming por 
 tals of the horizon. 
 
 Here and there cattle raised their 
 thoughtful heads from their browsing, 
 mildly interested in the passing scene. 
 The fields lay green and golden in the 
 warm sunlight. In the wheat fields, wav 
 ing armies flashed their green spears 
 in the blinding sheen. From the pure, 
 unclouded blue of the sky a torrid heat 
 beat down upon the earth, which would 
 gladden the hearts of the reapers with 
 abundant yields at harvest.
 
 12 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Now the giant wayfarer traversed 
 yawning canons of forest. Now he 
 emerged again among green and yellow 
 fields and grazing herds. 
 
 Now he thundered over a shimmering 
 riband of brook, that flashed back to him 
 the reflection of his graceful outline. And 
 again he rumbled past scenes of domestic 
 happiness. 
 
 Farm houses, flanked by fruit or 
 chards, raised their red and green roofs 
 above the plumes of blooming trees, in 
 stately harmony with the handiwork of 
 nature. 
 
 The girl gave little heed to the unfold 
 ing scene. She was going home. The 
 first long chapter in the book of her life 
 had come to an uneventful close. With 
 the opening of the next, all the meagre 
 resources at her command would be 
 needed, to guide her faltering steps over 
 spaces unpathed and unknown. 
 
 She reclined in a dream-haze against 
 the stuffy crimson plush of her seat; her
 
 The Golden Poppy 13 
 
 svelt, well moulded body swaying gently 
 with the movement of the coach. 
 
 Hers was the face of a beautiful child, 
 wondering, believing. Large hazel eyes 
 surmounted by daintily arched brows and 
 fringed with long, heavy lashes, that 
 caressed her cheeks when she closed those 
 lustrous orbs. A mouth that might have 
 been done by a Rubens, curved like a 
 hunter's bow, full-lipped and bold and of 
 the redness of carmine. Ears of the 
 translucency of sea shells, as delicate as 
 rose petals. A nose Grecian in type, such 
 as might have been Helen's. A throat, 
 creamy and full, raising its white column 
 from the depths of a breast already well 
 rounded and matured. A wealth of gold 
 en hair, framing in the exquisite features 
 of the girl, like the handiwork of a master 
 on some rare cameo. 
 
 She was aware of her charms and rev 
 eled in her beauty. 
 
 In the convent she had left behind to 
 day, which had been her home these seven 
 years and out of which she had passed to
 
 14 The Golden Poppy 
 
 take up her place among her people, the 
 sisters had many times deplored the girl's 
 vanity and self-complaisance, even going 
 so far as to make prophecies of dire visita 
 tions from Heaven for her worldliness 
 and want of Christian humility. 
 
 The subject of these remonstrances 
 only laughed at the pious folk and ad 
 mired her pretty self the more for their 
 fears. 
 
 The train was leaving Brosseau, when 
 a young man entered the front door of 
 the coach on his way to the smoker. 
 
 He was of medium build and stature 
 and of a complexion committed neither to 
 light nor dark. 
 
 The eyes were gray; the nose merely 
 accidental. A stubby little hedge bristled 
 pugnaciously on his upper lip. 
 
 He was neatly attired in grays. 
 
 He surveyed the coach with cool de 
 liberation, until his eyes met those of the 
 girl and kindled in recognition. 
 
 In a moment he was standing before 
 her, hat in hand.
 
 The Golden Poppy 15 
 
 The girl appeared mildly pleased at the 
 meeting. 
 
 The young man smiled politely and 
 spoke some little commonplace. It was 
 a great pleasure, a delightful surprise, to 
 renew, thus unexpectedly, a cherished ac 
 quaintance. 
 
 She blushed prettily and made room 
 for him beside her. 
 
 He readily accepted the favor. 
 
 There was a moment's constraint which 
 he broke with : 
 
 "I believe this is our first meeting since 
 May?" 
 
 "Yes, you were at the convent to see 
 your niece, Clotilde. The little tease had 
 me called to the parlor. She is forever 
 up to such tricks." 
 
 They laughed and he went on: 
 
 "Now, you must not be too hard on my 
 niece, Miss Labelle, for, the truth is, it 
 was I who asked her to send for you. I 
 had seen you many times in church. In 
 deed, my devotions during those days
 
 1 6 The Golden Poppy 
 
 would do me little credit with St. Peter. 
 You are going home for the summer?" 
 
 "Yes, and the winter as well." 
 
 A slight change came over her features 
 and she gazed out at the fleeing pano 
 rama of field and forest. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember," he rejoined. 
 "Clotilde told me you were in your last 
 year." 
 
 They were silent for a space. Pres 
 ently he said: 
 
 "I am spending the summer months at 
 St. John's, with my people. We might 
 have many pleasant hours together. Shall 
 I call?" 
 
 "By all means, Doctor Randon; you 
 know where we live?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, perfectly well; I have known 
 the place since childhood although I 
 had never met its most lovely tenant." 
 
 "Flatterer!" 
 
 "I mean it," he laughed. Then: "I 
 must see to my luggage. I shall be over. 
 Good-bye, Miss Labelle." 
 
 She put out a dainty hand : "Au revoir,
 
 The Golden Poppy 17 
 
 Doctor Randon," she said, with her sweet 
 est smile. 
 
 They were at St. John's. 
 
 The next stop would be Lamartiriette, 
 on the other side of the Richelieu. And 
 Lamartinette was home. 
 
 There would be someone at the station 
 to meet her. Pierre, most likely. 
 
 It was but a five minutes' ride across 
 the river. 
 
 She gazed out with a thrill of gladness 
 upon the majestic stream, which she had 
 watched ofttimes as a child. 
 
 It was still rushing onward to the hun 
 gry sea, never returning; still hurrying 
 past the simple scenes, in its maddening 
 quest for the great waters, never hoping 
 again to kiss these fertile shores. 
 
 A white sail glimmered on the blue 
 surface in the distance. Canoes dotted 
 the water here and there. Men and boys 
 squatted indolently along the shores, fish 
 ing. The church spires of the village 
 shone like silver minarets in the blinding 
 sunlight.
 
 1 8 The Golden Poppy 
 
 These were the scenes she had known 
 as a child. 
 
 They seemed far removed from her 
 now, like the faces of a half-forgotten 
 dream. 
 
 She drew herself to her feet, perturbed. 
 
 It all seemed quite flat and tasteless, 
 now. 
 
 The porter came for her luggage. 
 
 Mechanically, she followed him to the 
 vestibule and down the steps to the sta 
 tion platform. 
 
 Village idlers stood about in little 
 knots, gaping. 
 
 Pierre, his lean, brown face alight with 
 welcome, was there to greet her. He was 
 the adopted son of her mother's only 
 brother, and had been raised with Isabelle 
 after the death of Jules Duval. 
 
 He had donned his best suit for the 
 occasion a stiff, funereal garb of black, 
 which had been pressed until the creases 
 stood out like welts against the fabric. 
 A ready-made cravat of vivid blue ap 
 peared to have been flattened against the
 
 The Golden Poppy 19 
 
 starched bosom of his shirt and pasted 
 there. A narrow white band of collar 
 did little to conceal the hirsute column of 
 neck. His great, powerful hands dan 
 gled like pendulums from the too short 
 sleeves of his coat. He wore new patent 
 leather shoes, which seemed to increase 
 the size of his feet. 
 
 As he strode forward to meet her, his 
 hand went hesitatingly to his straw sailor 
 hat, revealing a shaggy mane of blue- 
 black hair. 
 
 He appeared at a loss for words. But 
 his face shone with the joy of a child. 
 
 "Isabelle!" he exclaimed softly, for one 
 of his brawn and stature. And in that 
 word he found expression for his glad 
 ness, for he said no more ; but busied him 
 self with her luggage. 
 
 The road from the station to the home 
 of Philipe Labelle wound lazily in a wide 
 circle around the village. Wild clover 
 and goldenrod mingled their white and 
 yellow blossoms in riotous profusion 
 along the way. The elderberry reveled
 
 2O The Golden Poppy 
 
 in the sun beside the choke-cherry trees 
 and hazel bushes. Daisies nodded de 
 murely in the meadows. In the fields, 
 where the coming harvest was now the 
 rich brown of bakers' loaves, bobolinks 
 waxed garrulous, their trim bodies sway 
 ing rhythmically on the golden shafts of 
 ripening grain. An indolent chorus of 
 song rose dreamily from the earth, where 
 grasshoppers lived their short day in the 
 abundance of Summer's gifts, well con 
 tent to leave to-morrow to its own device. 
 
 They had rounded a curve in the high 
 way and were at the foot of a long, grad 
 ual slope, when the homestead flaunted its 
 bold white-columned facade from amidst 
 its surrounding framework of pines and 
 maples. 
 
 The house, of stately proportions, was 
 white, with green roof and shutters. A 
 broad veranda circled the front and 
 sides of the structure. The barns and 
 stables stood off some five hundred yards 
 in the rear of the house, mute sentinels
 
 The Golden Poppy 21 
 
 of the thrift and enterprise of the hus 
 bandman whose abode was here. 
 
 The girl straightened in her seat as the 
 familiar scene revealed itself to her eyes. 
 
 "Home, Pierre,!" she sighed. 
 
 "Yes, yes, home, Isabelle," laughed the 
 big fellow. "You are glad, eh?" 
 
 "Glad that I am home? Oh, surely, 
 Pierre. Everyone is glad to come 
 home. Home is the beginning and the 
 end. Ah, there is Father. And Mamman, 
 coming from her flower garden. Noth 
 ing has changed. Everything looks the 
 same as when I was home last. It will 
 seem lonely for a while. But, you will 
 take me for many rides in the country, 
 will you not, Pierre?" 
 
 "Well, well, I thought you were never 
 coming," rumbled a voice close at hand 
 and the huge form of Philipe Labelle 
 bounded lithely from behind a fringe of 
 willows, which bordered the driveway, to 
 the side of the slowly moving car. 
 
 Isabelle alighted and kissed her father, 
 who crushed the soft, pliant form rudely
 
 22 The Golden Poppy 
 
 to his breast and swept her exquisite 
 mouth and cheeks with a coarse black 
 brush of beard. 
 
 Isabelle hastened toward the house to 
 greet her mother, who was approaching 
 with an armful of roses. 
 
 Mrs. Labelle was a faded little woman, 
 with thoughtful, saddened eyes and yel 
 lowish hair now streaking into gray. Her 
 face was expressive of helpless resigna 
 tion to the futility of hope, to the empti 
 ness of human joys. 
 
 Isabelle kissed her mother and enquired 
 about her health. Mrs. Labelle smiled a 
 brave reply and murmured a protest 
 against the excessive heat. The men were 
 approaching now with the girl's luggage. 
 Pierre opened the parasol and held it out 
 to Isabelle. 
 
 "A storm is coming," said Philipe, 
 pointing to the western sky, where an 
 ominous stretch of cloud loomed blackish, 
 threaded with dancing streaks of fire. A 
 cool breeze rustled the grasses at their 
 feet. Somewhere a door slammed loudly.
 
 The Golden Poppy 23 
 
 They moved across the lawn and passed 
 into the house. The darkened rooms 
 were cool and the rising wind swept 
 grateful gusts through the open doors 
 and windows. 
 
 Mrs. Labelle arranged her flowers on 
 the dining-room table and set about to 
 lay meat for the returning child, explain 
 ing that Ernestine, the maid of all work, 
 had gone to a picnic at High Gate 
 Springs. 
 
 She placed a cold chicken on the snow- 
 white cloth and fetched a pitcher of cream 
 from the dairy. A pot of coffee followed 
 in turn, flanked by newly churned butter 
 and an imposing round loaf of home-made 
 bread. A deep dish of raspberries came 
 next, their black eyes peeping through a 
 snowfall of powdered sugar. 
 
 While these preparations were under 
 way, Isabelle repaired to her room to 
 change her clothing and remove the dust 
 of travel. 
 
 She reappeared a few minutes later in 
 a pale blue dressing-gown of crepe-like
 
 24 The Golden Poppy 
 
 texture, which revealed the classic column 
 of her full, satiny throat. 
 
 Her little feet were encased in dainty 
 slippers of black kid and her hair was 
 done in a luxuriant coil over the back of 
 her shapely head and neck. 
 
 She appeared refreshed from her ablu 
 tions. A soft tinge of color had stolen 
 over the paleness of her cheeks. 
 
 She ate heartily, like the healthy creat 
 ure that she was, chatting animatedly the 
 while with her mother, who had taken a 
 seat across the table. 
 
 The men had gone out, presumably to 
 their work about the farm. 
 
 "It will be nice to have you home, Isa- 
 belle," said Mamman Labelle. "It has 
 been so very lonesome of late." 
 
 There was a pause and she spoke again : 
 
 "You are going to stay at home, of 
 course ?" 
 
 "Really, mother, I have thought very 
 little about it ; but, I can understand your 
 being lonely here." 
 
 "They say, Isabelle, that one becomes
 
 The Golden Poppy 25 
 
 inured to dungeons. I have read so in 
 books. I believe it is true. I think it has 
 been the case with me here all these 
 years." 
 
 She sighed audibly and drew her little 
 white shawl more closely about her shoul 
 ders. 
 
 The storm broke at last and drenched 
 the earth with a warm, beneficent rain. 
 Then, the wind died down to a caress, 
 swishing softly among the dripping leaves 
 and grasses. The sun burst forth in fiery 
 splendor, over a ragged battlement of 
 cloud. Farmyard fowls quitted the shel 
 ter of the barns to forage in fields of 
 plenty. Isabelle, emerging from the 
 house, stepped down onto the smooth 
 gravel path and followed its winding 
 course around the house to the orchard 
 and garden overlooking the sloping pas 
 ture lands of her father. 
 
 Far over the valley the velvet green of 
 the earth was dotted with the red and 
 white of grazing herds. 
 
 Isabelle surveyed the peaceful scene
 
 26 The Golden Poppy 
 
 before her, a prey to the surging memo 
 ries of her childhood. It was here that 
 she had lived her earlier years, in this 
 house of cloud and shadow, grim battle 
 ground of silences, where intercourse be 
 tween the parent Labelles had been limit 
 ed, as far back as she could remember, to 
 curt exchanges of words indispensable to 
 the routine of the household. 
 
 Nearby stood the slender oak sapling 
 which she had planted on her ninth birth 
 day. Some future generation, now far 
 distant, would view the grandeur of its 
 full estate. She would have long since 
 departed the scene. She pondered the 
 fleeting quality of human life and shud 
 dered inwardly at the evanescence of 
 youth and of the charms of its short days. 
 
 Perched on a fence-post, midway be 
 tween the garden and the barns, a guinea 
 cock called to his mate, hatching her 
 brood somewhere in the seclusion of the 
 harvest fields. Pigeons strutted about in 
 scattered flocks, gleaning. She saw her 
 father, followed by Pierre, emerge from
 
 The Golden Poppy 27 
 
 the stables and cross over to the sheep- 
 pens. They would soon be coming in ; for 
 the round red sun had descended to the 
 distant hill-tops; and the day was done. 
 She retraced her steps to the house and 
 went to her room. 
 
 She wished to be alone. 
 
 Her mother called her for the evening 
 meal. 
 
 But she did not go down to supper. 
 
 Instead, she drew a large, oaken rocker 
 to the open window and watched the 
 purpling twilight steal over the hills and 
 down into the valleys. By and by the 
 stars came out and a silver crescent of 
 moon hung from the limb of a tall tree on 
 the peak of a distant spur. From the 
 creek, hard by, rose an exultant chorus of 
 frogs. And on the crooning breeze were 
 wafted in to her the mingling perfumes 
 of the coming harvest. Isabelle heard her 
 mother mount the stairs to her room. She 
 heard the metallic click of the key as Mrs. 
 Labelle locked her chamber door. From 
 below came the loud, strident voice of the
 
 28 The Golden Poppy 
 
 father, in debate with the mild-mannered 
 Pierre. They, too, would soon lumber off 
 to their beds, to be up and doing again at 
 blush of dawn. A feeling of revulsion 
 swept over her. She was appalled by the 
 loneliness of this hum-drum, workaday 
 life. 
 
 It was late when Ernestine came home 
 from the picnic. And it was long after 
 the dead hush of night had settled over 
 the house when Isabelle rose from her 
 seat by the window and sought the solace 
 of sleep. 
 
 She awoke to the songs of birds, burst 
 ing in joyously through the open windows 
 of the spacious bedroom. The faint per 
 fume of wild flowers and grasses thrilled 
 her. 
 
 She pushed down the covers with her 
 feet. 
 
 Her white hands met over her tumbling 
 tresses, revealing plump, snowy arms. 
 She lay luxuriously upon her back, her 
 wonderful eyes fixed abstractedly on the 
 gilt crucifix at the foot of the bed.
 
 The Golden Poppy 29 
 
 A dog bayed in the distance. She sat 
 up regretfully on the edge of the bed. 
 
 Then, she crossed the room, to view 
 the landscape. 
 
 Winding around the lane that led to 
 the pasture, she saw a long, lagging pro 
 cession of cows, urged by a shaggy dog, 
 wending toward the barns. Pierre was 
 letting down the bars. The patient crea 
 tures mooed softly as they came within 
 sight of their keeper. One by one they 
 passed into the barnyard and disappeared. 
 Pierre, taking up the milk pails, plodded 
 after. 
 
 "Poor Pierre !" she commiserated, in an 
 under-tone. 
 
 Then, the after-thought : 
 
 "I might have been like him. My lot 
 would have been the same as his, had I 
 remained here, content with the life of 
 the farm. But no, I never liked it. The 
 drudgery of such an existence frightened 
 me, even as a child. I abhor it." 
 
 A little to the south, slowly detaching 
 himself from the green framework of the
 
 3O The Golden Poppy 
 
 orchard, was her father's ne'er-do-well 
 brother, her Uncle Nazaire, a scythe over 
 his shoulder, plodding his way afield. 
 
 He was a short stoutly built man, with 
 a purplish, bulbous nose and eyes that 
 strained in their sockets beneath a narrow 
 band of bulging brow. His mouth was 
 thick-lipped and gash-like; and enormous 
 ears stood out and away from the closely- 
 cropped, egg-shaped head. The chin fell 
 away abruptly, without coming to a point ; 
 and the short, fat neck gave eloquent 
 promise of a sudden end. 
 
 Together with his wife, Philomene, he 
 lived in a cottage on the far edge of his 
 brother's farm. Philomene did plain sew 
 ing for the women of Lamartinette and 
 Nazaire contributed to the menage from 
 the proceeds of his labors on the thriving 
 acres of Philippe Labelle. 
 
 Isabelle, now, as many times in the 
 past, felt an instinctive dislike for this man 
 of her own blood. 
 
 And when Nazaire, moved by some 
 mental process of his own, turned sud-
 
 The Golden Poppy 31 
 
 denly in his tracks and gazed up at her 
 window, the girl drew the curtain hastily 
 and retreated, strangely perturbed. 
 
 She crossed over to the ancient dresser 
 of black walnut and stood before the long 
 swinging mirror, the same that had re 
 vealed her child image to her, years ago. 
 
 She smiled her satisfaction at the re 
 flection in the glass; and turned to her 
 toilet. She had finished dressing, when 
 her mother, thinking Isabelle was still 
 asleep, opened the door softly and entered 
 the room. 
 
 "Good morning, cherie," she said; 
 "have you rested well?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, mother, I slept like a top." 
 
 "I thought I would see if you were still 
 asleep. The men have eaten and gone; 
 we shall breakfast together." 
 
 She turned to the open window and 
 went on: 
 
 "What a beautiful scene! I have al 
 ways admired it so: the valley, the hills, 
 the blue, far-away land touching the sky."
 
 32 The Golden Poppy 
 
 The girl's arm stole about the little 
 form. 
 
 "Mumzie," she said, "why is it that 
 far-away things always seem more attrac 
 tive more to be desired?" 
 
 "I suppose it is because we are not near 
 enough to see their flaws, my child. I 
 have sometimes thought that if wives 
 could see their husbands but once or twice 
 each year, the great institution of mar 
 riage might be accounted an unfailing 
 success. The women would have neither 
 the time nor the disposition to see the 
 flaws in their mates." 
 
 The girl laughed outright. 
 
 "But, surely you are not in earnest, 
 Mumzie," she rejoined. "Such a life 
 would be intolerable to me at least. I 
 shall want my husband with me always." 
 
 "Then, make sure you are both devoted 
 lovers, my child, before taking the final 
 step; for where there is mutual love the 
 flaws are not seen." 
 
 "So much for the men, little mother;
 
 The Golden Poppy 33 
 
 but what of the wives: have they not 
 flaws as well?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, fully as many; but the 
 average man seeks diversion away from 
 home. He refuses to be too strongly 
 bound; he is over-liberal in the interpre 
 tation of the marriage vow as it affects 
 him. And society sanctions and upholds 
 his breaches of the vow. In other words, 
 it seems to be the common view that fidel 
 ity is a beautiful virtue in the wives. 
 But, come, dear, you must be hungry. I 
 shall tell Ernestine you are up." 
 
 She laughed wryly, and by way of 
 after-thought, added: 
 
 "As for husbands and wives, my dear 
 child, you must not let that occupy your 
 thoughts. Time and fate will adjust your 
 fortunes. You, yourself, could never hope 
 to fashion the mould of your future life. 
 If this were possible, there would be no 
 unhappiness in the world. And then, we 
 would all be in Heaven before our time, 
 thus cheating the good old St. Peter of all 
 the surprises he holds in store for us."
 
 34 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "I shall treat it as a closed book, Mum- 
 zie dear," said Isabelle, "until the proper 
 time." 
 
 And together they passed out of the 
 room.
 
 CHAPTER TWO. 
 
 David Randon drove over to the 
 Labelle homestead a few days after his 
 meeting with Isabelle. 
 
 It was Sunday. A delightful breeze 
 cooled the ardor of the sun. The quiet of 
 the day lay drowsily over the countryside. 
 
 Randon alighted from his car in the 
 driveway and advanced to the veranda, 
 where Philippe Labelle was smoking an 
 after-dinner pipe. He bowed pleasantly 
 and asked for Miss Labelle. 
 
 The farmer eyed Randon with a swift, 
 sweeping glance. Mask-like, his swarthy, 
 bearded face remained non-committal. "I 
 shall call her," he said. "Be seated, Mon 
 
 sieur." 
 
 He found Isabelle in the kitchen, with 
 her mother and Ernestine. 
 
 [35]
 
 36 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "There is someone to see you, Isabelle," 
 he said. "I think it's that young Randon, 
 from St. John's. Do you know him?" 
 
 "Yes through his niece, at the con 
 vent. He said he was going to call." 
 
 Labelle was about to speak again; but 
 thought better of it. Turning on his heel, 
 he relighted his pipe and tamped the 
 dottle. Then he strode out of the house 
 and made his way slowly towards the 
 barns. 
 
 Isabelle removed her apron. 
 
 "How do I look?" she asked. She was 
 smiling. Her eyes danced with pleasur 
 able excitement. A healthy glow flushed 
 her cheeks to the tinge of rose petals. 
 
 The others, turning from the steaming 
 dishes, surveyed her critically and spoke 
 their approval. She disappeared through 
 the swinging door and a moment later 
 came out onto the veranda, her hands out 
 stretched to Randon in honest welcome. 
 
 "I have been expecting you," she told 
 him, without preamble. "Won't you come 
 in? It is cooler inside."
 
 The Golden Poppy 37 
 
 She drew open the door and they 
 passed into the parlor, a square, spacious 
 room immediately off the front entrance. 
 Isabelle raised the shades, relieving the 
 semi-darkness of the apartment. Then, 
 she seated herself before him and smiled 
 her pleasure at his being there. He, too, 
 was well pleased with the moment. He 
 gazed at the young, healthy creature be 
 fore him without any attempt at conceal 
 ment. Randon was the first to speak. 
 
 "I have come to take you for a ride. 
 You are at liberty?" 
 
 "Yes. It will be very nice, a drive into 
 the country. I shall tell Mother and get 
 a wrap." 
 
 In her room, Isabelle chose a long, 
 loose-fitting coat of light texture. With 
 a deft touch or two, she adjusted a rebel 
 lious wisp of hair. A glance in the mirror 
 evoked a smile of satisfaction. She picked 
 up a beaded reticule on the dresser, and 
 went down to meet him. At the foot of 
 the stairway she met her mother, emerg 
 ing from the dining-room.
 
 38 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She took her by the arm. 
 
 "Come, Mumzie," she said. "I want 
 you to see my beau." 
 
 She laughed softly and drew the un 
 willing woman gently to the parlor. 
 
 "What a child it is !" Mrs. Labelle was 
 saying as the door opened. 
 
 Randon arose from his seat by the win 
 dow as the women entered. Mrs. Labelle 
 greeted the guest warmly and told him 
 he must feel quite free to call "sans cere- 
 monie," as long as he remained in the 
 good graces of her Isabelle. They all 
 laughed and Randon asked: 
 
 "Is it as bad as all that, Mrs. Labelle? 
 Can it be the lady is fickle?" 
 
 "She used to be with her dolls and 
 her playthings. Oh, dear, I had such a 
 time of it, keeping her amused! But, 
 there, I was thinking her still a child. It 
 seems but yesterday, you see, that she was 
 a little thing in curls and short dresses." 
 
 Her mood passed presently; and she 
 left them, with a parting smile and an "au 
 revoir."
 
 The Golden Poppy 39 
 
 They were on the main road when Ran- 
 don said: 
 
 "Where shall we go? To Chambly?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Chambly by all means. I 
 haven't been there since I was a little 
 girl." 
 
 "That was but yesterday," he smiled. 
 
 "Yes Mother does seem to think I 
 am still a little girl. And yet, I can under 
 stand her. It seems so short a while to 
 me, too, since I played with my dolls and 
 waited longingly for Santa Claus. I won 
 der if we rush on so rapidly to old age?" 
 
 "More so, they say. I have heard that 
 after you have passed the fortieth mile 
 stone, the descent seems almost perpen 
 dicular." 
 
 "Oh!" she shuddered, "how realistic! 
 One would think you were selling tobog 
 gans." 
 
 "Now that you mention it," he re 
 joined, "life and toboggans are not with 
 out a degree of similarity: In both cases 
 much effort is wasted to little end. What
 
 4O The Golden Poppy 
 
 a gloomy subject," he broke off, "for such 
 a day!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," she bantered. "Let us 
 laugh while there is still time." 
 
 On the crest of a lonely plateau, a mile 
 or so from the house, a tall, straight fig 
 ure stood watching the car as it rolled 
 away towards the village. 
 
 It was Pierre.
 
 CHAPTER THREE. 
 
 They had crossed the old white bridge 
 that spanned the Richelieu and had left 
 St. John's far behind. The road lay be 
 neath a thick, velvet pall of dust, that rose 
 in a swirling cloud of gray, as they 
 passed. The banks and ditches along the 
 highway were massed with a profusion of 
 wild bloom, from the shimmering gold of 
 buttercups to the ivory white of spreading 
 elders. Through the green lace-work of 
 foliage they caught swift-flashing gleams 
 of the sun-silvered Richelieu. The sky 
 was very clear and blue. It arched high 
 above, in a translucent dome, untouched 
 by a wave of varying hue. Nor did it 
 have the seeming of the abode of storms 
 and wrath, black and frightful, which oft- 
 times thundered over the valley when 
 night had come. 
 
 [41]
 
 42 The Golden Poppy 
 
 They arrived at Chambly as the vesper 
 bells were calling the faithful to worship. 
 
 The quaint little town nestled, cool and 
 tranquil, in the shade of oaks and maples. 
 
 Gay little groups of habitants stood 
 about, chatting in their gala attire of 
 Dimanche. 
 
 Dimanche was a great day for these 
 simple folk. 
 
 It was Sunday the day of the week 
 which called them together for spiritual 
 uplift; and which also served to stimulate 
 the inner man and prepare him for 
 greater feats of wood-cutting on the 
 morrow. 
 
 For, they were great bucherons men 
 who, with mighty strokes of their axes, 
 hewed their way through the great for 
 ests, felling the kings of the wild. From 
 the blush of dawn until the coppered cre- 
 puscle made aim unsure, you could hear 
 the echoing chorus of steel on wood, brok 
 en anon by the crashing fall of a wounded 
 monarch. 
 
 A life surely worth the living. Care-
 
 The Golden Poppy 43 
 
 free ; and, though humble in its simplicity, 
 yet flowing with a pride of physical prow 
 ess unknown to dwellers of the city. 
 
 A meagre line of villagers threaded 
 slowly over the tree-arched street towards 
 the throbbing church spire. Randon came 
 to a stop in front of the gray wooden 
 structure. 
 
 "Shall we go in?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, yes, if you care to," she replied, 
 suppressing an impulse of dissent. 
 
 She was not of a devotional nature; 
 and the symbols of creed and dogma were 
 accepted by her with indifference, much 
 the same as the dinner bell on her father's 
 farm, the falling of the leaves in Autumn, 
 or the patter of rain on the roof. 
 
 A few taper flames trembled on either 
 side of the altar, like little tongues of 
 fire, in the breeze from the open windows. 
 
 An old priest, in biretta and vestments, 
 officiated, assisted by altar boys wearing 
 surplice and cassock. 
 
 They left after the benediction and re 
 turned to Lamartinette by way of a wide
 
 44 The Golden Poppy 
 
 detour, reaching the Labelle homestead 
 after dark. The night was beautiful, cool 
 and clear and spangled with many stars. 
 From the fields along the way rose an in 
 cessant chorus of song, where katydids 
 and crickets chanted of their blissful hour. 
 Frogs trilled exultantly on the banks of 
 moon-silvered brooks; and from the 
 boughs of friendly oaks owls croaked 
 sagely to their brood. The witchery of 
 night lay like a spell over the land. The 
 earth throbbed with gladness. 
 
 Isabelle was strangely moved. 
 
 They parted at the end of the gravel 
 path that led from the driveway to the 
 house. 
 
 Randon promised to call again soon; 
 and, in the twinkling of an eye, was gone. 
 
 Isabelle watched the car roll away into 
 the darkness. Then she turned her steps 
 towards the house. 
 
 As she mounted the steps of the veran 
 da, Labelle's great bulk loomed black in 
 the shadows. He had been dozing, he 
 said. How late was it?
 
 The Golden Poppy 45 
 
 About ten o'clock, she told him. 
 
 "You must be careful, my girl. This 
 is not the city. People talk. If this fel 
 low Randon thinks well of you, it is 
 strange he keeps you out so late. What 
 does he want, anyhow?" 
 
 "Why, at this moment, Father, I do not 
 know. But, if there is anything he does 
 want, he will, in all probability, ask for it. 
 And when that comes to pass, I shall con 
 sider it my duty to tell you, if I decide to 
 grant his request. And now," she 
 laughed, "I am going to bed. I know I 
 shall sleep well, for I am tired. Good 
 night, Father." 
 
 "Just the same, you will do well to 
 guard your good name in Lamartinette, 
 you hear that?" 
 
 Isabelle turned back out of the door 
 way to face him. 
 
 "Surely," she said, "no harm could be 
 made of my staying out until ten o'clock 
 with a young man." 
 
 "Maybe so. But, I am older than you. 
 I know a few things about life, about
 
 46 The Golden Poppy 
 
 people. The time for you to use your 
 head is now; not afterwards, when the 
 tongues are wagging. If your mother 
 had any sense, she would have told you 
 this before tonight. Now, go to bed. I 
 am tired, myself. But, I wanted to see 
 you and tell you this." 
 
 He brushed past her without waiting 
 for her to speak, and went off to his room. 
 
 Isabelle was perplexed by her father's 
 speech. If people must talk, why, then, 
 they would talk and nothing could stop 
 them. But, she had certainly done noth 
 ing to cause them uneasiness. With a 
 toss of her pretty head, she dismissed the 
 matter from her mind, and went to bed. 
 She was soon asleep.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR. 
 
 Randon now became a frequent visitor 
 at the home of Philippe Labelle. 
 
 After his warning to Isabelle, the 
 father had lapsed into a mood of stubborn 
 silence. Quite as suddenly as he had ac 
 quired it, he appeared to have lost interest 
 in her good name before the little world of 
 Lamartinette. He spoke rarely to Mrs. 
 Labelle; and exchanged but the briefest 
 courtesies with his daughter. 
 
 Ernestine was more favored. 
 
 A smile, a pleasant word now and then ; 
 and, if he happened to find her alone, a 
 great brown hand laid gently upon her 
 shoulder while his black, hungering eyes 
 sought a responsive gleam in hers. 
 
 "Some day," he would say to himself, 
 grimly prophetic, after such a moment 
 
 [47]
 
 48 The Golden Poppy 
 
 with her, "some day, if all went well. Ah, 
 she was a woman worth while, that little 
 Ernestine !" 
 
 The married life of the Labelles had 
 long since gone awry. 
 
 Philippe had grown to manhood an un 
 blemished product of his sires, coarse of 
 speech, crafty in his dealings with men, 
 vindictive to the point of treachery if 
 need be. 
 
 He had seen in a union with Marie 
 Duval an opportunity to acquire, in one 
 stroke, the large and well stocked farm 
 which the orphan girl had inherited from 
 her parents. 
 
 Strangely enough, the gossips mused, 
 the lonely maid had smiled upon his suit. 
 
 There came a day when the wedding 
 bells rang out as gladly as ever they had 
 pealed before. 
 
 For what recks a wedding bell of mor 
 rows? 
 
 From the village church, the blessing 
 of the Cure still upon them, they drove out
 
 The Golden Poppy 49 
 
 to the farm her farm; for the groom 
 was thrice blessed with poverty. 
 
 Here they took up their abode, which 
 soon became the tenement of discord. 
 
 A child was born. A daughter. Again 
 they journeyed to the church, and named 
 her Isabelle. 
 
 The gossips would have it that the little 
 one must, by the nature of things, bring 
 the young parents to a closer understand 
 ing. 
 
 But they were wrong. No human 
 force, it seemed, could mate these two. 
 
 They ceased, by common accord, to live 
 as man and wife. 
 
 Labelle sought and found elsewhere his 
 "little pleasures." 
 
 His wife, a convent girl, discovered in 
 the joys of motherhood a solace for her 
 wounds. 
 
 A granite wall rose between them. 
 They came and went as strangers. 
 
 There had been times, through the 
 years, when, returning in his cups from 
 the village, late in the night, he had mus-
 
 50 The Golden Poppy 
 
 tered the courage to venture across the 
 lobby from his own room to that of his 
 wife. Repeated knocks on the door had 
 elicited no reply from within. 
 
 One night, however, having drunk 
 more deeply than was his wont, he grew 
 more bold, and, refusing further to accept 
 her silence as a refusal, called her by 
 name. 
 
 The gates of his promised land went 
 wide and he beheld his wife in the door 
 way, pale and startled. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "I have been thinking," he said, "that 
 we should leave off this manner of living 
 and be more like man and wife towards 
 each other. What say you Marie?" 
 
 And she did what he thought was a 
 strange thing. She laughed outright in 
 his face. It was a laugh that chilled him 
 to the bone and stung his torpid senses 
 to a realization of what he had done. And 
 while he was still standing there, gaping 
 stupidly for want of words, the door 
 closed again and the key clicked harshly
 
 The Golden Poppy 51 
 
 in the lock. He went back to his room, 
 sobered and ashamed. It was his last at 
 tempt at reconciliation. And this had 
 been years ago. 
 
 They seldom quarreled. 
 
 They had long since receded from that 
 stage of intimacy which would have per 
 mitted or engendered the violent out 
 breaks incidental in less frigid unions. 
 What they had ever held towards each 
 other of love or of passion was dead now, 
 vanished and forgotten. 
 
 Tacitly it had been agreed that the 
 mother was to have her way in the rearing 
 of the little girl, while Philippe was to be 
 dictator of the farm. The house was par 
 celed off as a sort of neutral ground. 
 
 To the credit of Philippe Labelle it 
 must be said that his stewardship had 
 been fruitful of improvements and of 
 profit. 
 
 Seemingly indefatigable, he labored 
 early and late in the fields, in the barns, 
 among the stock. He knew no hour of 
 night or day while a task lay undone be-
 
 52 The Golden Poppy 
 
 fore him. He was vain of his great en 
 durance and joyed in his lusty prowess. 
 His were the finest barns and stables in 
 the county, his the purest stock, his the 
 most abundant yield of grain. 
 
 He loved the earth and toiled untiringly 
 that she might blossom and bear fruit 
 anew. And she rewarded him in profu 
 sion with her gifts, even as a mother does 
 her favorite son.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE. 
 
 The harvest moon smiled down on 
 fields of plenty in Lamartinette. 
 
 Over the acres of Philippe Labelle rose 
 a magic, tented city that rolled away to 
 the verge, golden with promise. 
 
 The habitants sang lustily afield and 
 toiled with willing brawn; for the earth 
 had been bounteous with her gifts and 
 they were glad with the knowledge of 
 abundance. 
 
 Even Nazaire went about his work 
 with something of a lighter mood; and 
 Philomene, who was cooking for the har 
 vesters at the home of Philippe, took on 
 a semblance of civility towards the men. 
 
 Not that the gain of Philippe meant 
 theirs in a like measure. But they hoped 
 that it might reflect some degree of bet 
 terment in their condition. 
 
 [S3]
 
 54 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Nazaire had finally succeeded, after 
 many futile attempts, in obtaining a 
 promise of better wages, provisional upon 
 an increase in the yield of his brother's 
 crops. 
 
 The frequent visits of David Randon 
 to the Labelle homestead soon became a 
 topic of interest in Lamartinette. 
 
 It was generally believed that the Ran- 
 dons of St. John's were well provided 
 with the goods of the world. Indeed, the 
 young David, now a graduate in medi 
 cine, was considered quite "worth while" 
 by all who knew the chronology of the 
 two neighboring towns. 
 
 The elder Randons had died some years 
 ago, while David was still in the classics, 
 leaving him and his sister, Julia, to share 
 the estate. 
 
 Julia, a sweet-faced girl of twenty sum 
 mers, had entered the sisterhood of the 
 Congregation de Notre Dame shortly 
 after her graduation from one of the 
 convents of that order, leaving David 
 pretty much his own master.
 
 The Golden Poppy 55 
 
 Two old and trusted servants, The- 
 ophile Beaulieu and Octavie Monette, 
 were left in charge of the Randon home 
 stead by the family lawyer and executor, 
 Eustache Girard, while the young Ran- 
 dons were at school in Montreal. 
 
 To-day, David found himself sole heir 
 to the Randon estate a start in life some 
 what more pretentious than real, as 
 Girard himself well knew. 
 
 It was known only to him that young 
 Randon would inherit little beyond what 
 he already possessed a profession as a 
 means of livelihood, a house to call his 
 home and a few acres of land about the 
 place. 
 
 Some day Girard would have a talk 
 with the young man. A confidential, 
 fatherly talk. It would be a painful tete- 
 a-tete for both. But it would have to be. 
 He wished now that he had had it over 
 with long ago, when the son of his old 
 friend was still a lad "en culottes/' Well, 
 well, it was a nasty bit of work to have
 
 56 The Golden Poppy 
 
 staring one in the face. But, somehow, 
 it always fell to the lot of lawyers or 
 preachers to patch up the shortcomings 
 of others. Was it not so? Of course it 
 was, and, no doubt, would continue to be 
 till the day of the last trumpet. Eh, Bon 
 Dieu! 
 
 Isabelle had not overcome her dislike 
 for the life of the farm. The unvarying, 
 colorless routine of day succeeding day, 
 the wordless, apathetic resignation of 
 those about her to the yoke of toil, the en 
 circling confines of their sphere of action 
 in the world and the narrowing limita 
 tions that such a life must in time pre 
 scribe for mind and soul, filled her with 
 an indefinable dread. There were times 
 when she would have taken flight, had it 
 not been for a girlish timidity, a natural 
 fear of hidden responsibilities, which the 
 outside world might hold in store for her. 
 A dread of the unknown, such as men feel 
 who walk in the dark. 
 
 She spent much of her spare time in 
 reading books from her mother's room.
 
 The Golden Poppy 57 
 
 Together with Randon she rode over 
 the long, shaded pikes, visiting strange 
 scenes. 
 
 Sometimes her companion was Pierre, 
 who spoke of the wild flowers and the 
 trees and unveiled to her the mysteries of 
 the forest. 
 
 She listened with child-like delight to 
 the wonderful lore of the furry tribes and 
 their feathered brothers of the trees. 
 
 In such moments she deplored the 
 choice that Pierre had made, in her belief 
 that in a world of action he might have 
 become one of its great men. 
 
 As for Pierre, he never spoke of his 
 hopes or ambitions, if such he had. In 
 deed, it seemed to Isabelle that he avoided, 
 when possible, any mention of himself. 
 He appeared greatly pleased to be with 
 her and his strong, honest face grew sad 
 and pensive at parting. 
 
 Pierre Thibeau had come to the home 
 of Philippe Labelle when still quite young. 
 Three years at the little country school-
 
 58 The Golden Poppy 
 
 house near the farm had been followed 
 by a course of four years in the Marist 
 College at Lamartinette, to which, later, 
 he added two years in agriculture 
 at L'Assomption. 
 
 The childhood of Pierre and Isabelle 
 had run a happy, care-free course in the 
 fields and woodland. The two children 
 were inseparable. They might be seen 
 together in the meadows, gathering wild 
 flowers, along the banks of the clear, cool 
 brook, speeding miniature flotillas, fash 
 ioned by their own little hands, on their 
 way to the deep, swift waters of the ma 
 jestic Richelieu; in the woods, at butter 
 nut time, and later, when the winds 
 of Autumn shook the great spreading 
 branches of the beech with mighty gusts, 
 covering the ground with opening burrs. 
 
 Together they had braved the winter 
 winds to build their hut of snow, without 
 which no winter could be quite complete, 
 and fashion a snow man at the gate, who 
 would guard the entrance through the 
 long, white night.
 
 The Golden Poppy 59 
 
 And when the sting of the north wind 
 had given way to April's warm caress and 
 the mountain chains of crystal white 
 melted away and thundered off to sea, 
 they still shared their childish joys. 
 
 For was not this the season when the 
 sap flowed from the maples to make syrup 
 for them and sugar forsooth ? 
 
 And so it was that they journeyed off 
 together always together to the sugar 
 cabin of Philippe Labelle, where great 
 brown cakes of maple sugar took form 
 under their eager eyes and wonderful iron 
 pots were kept boiling with the sap until 
 it turned thick and golden in the glad 
 April sun. 
 
 And there was old Jongleur, who was 
 fond of little folk and moulded sugar 
 hearts and stars for them and cooked 
 fresh eggs from the farm and pork in a 
 great panful of bubbling maple syrup, 
 over a campfire stove. 
 
 Oh, they were golden days, swift- 
 speeding days, running like powdered
 
 60 The Golden Poppy 
 
 sand through thoughtless, careless hands, 
 burbling on to the greater stream of their 
 life even as the reckless brook, that had 
 hurried their child-made ships to the fret 
 ful waters of the Richelieu.
 
 CHAPTER SIX. 
 
 The thrashers were gone. The mows 
 and granaries were filled to overflowing. 
 
 As Labelle stood with arms folded 
 across his chest, his feet planted squarely 
 on the floor, surveying the fruits of his 
 toil, a gleam of satisfaction played on his 
 swarthy face. 
 
 There had never been such a yield. 
 This year would long be remembered by 
 the habitants. For the Bon Dieu had 
 watched over their fields and their flocks 
 and given them rains and sunshine in 
 abundance, as he had not done before. 
 And among those who prospered most at 
 the hands of a kind providence was 
 Philippe Labelle. 
 
 He turned from contemplation of the 
 earth's gifts to the open doorway of the 
 barn. The sun was now high above the 
 
 [61]
 
 62 The Golden Poppy 
 
 blue hills in the east. A grateful breeze 
 wafted up from the green and dun slopes 
 of the valley. 
 
 In the hollows of the leaves and 
 grasses, the tears of the night glistened 
 like a shower of pearls. 
 
 A plumed knight of the barnyard 
 called his wives about him and stood by, 
 well pleased with his prowess, while they 
 shared the treasure trove of their lord. 
 
 As Labelle started towards the door, the 
 bulky figure of Nazaire stepped heavily 
 into the opening. He craned his short, 
 thick neck to assure himself of his 
 brother's presence; then entered. 
 
 "Salut," he said, moving over towards 
 the other, his eyes on the ground, his 
 brown, pudgy hands behind his back. 
 
 "Salut, Nazaire." 
 
 "A fine crop, eh, Philippe? What say 
 you ? Nom de Dieu ! If this good fortune 
 keeps up, you'll be moving to the city, 
 running for parliament who knows 
 what!"
 
 The Golden Poppy 63 
 
 "Hush up!" growled Philippe. "You 
 prate like a fool." 
 
 "Just the same, you have had a big crop. 
 You will not deny it!" 
 
 "Well, they don't hang people for that. 
 What of it?" 
 
 "Just this where do I come in?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Your promise of better wages You 
 have not forgotten ? One year ago today 
 we talked it over. At that time you 
 said" 
 
 "Ah, yes, to be sure at that time. But 
 you must know that things have changed 
 vastly since then. I was just thinking, 
 here by myself, how much better off I was 
 with a smaller income and less expense. 
 Yes, sir, I was saying to myself as you 
 stepped in : 'Philippe Labelle, you are not 
 as well off as you were when you had 
 less/ Besides, I am afraid I will have to 
 hire another man. You see, Nazaire, we 
 grow older as time runs on ; and the years, 
 as they go by, take toll of our youth and 
 strength. You are not the man you used
 
 64 The Golden Poppy 
 
 to be; and I cannot consent to paying 
 more and getting less." 
 
 "That is your answer, then?" croaked 
 Nazaire, his flabby face going pasty 
 white. "This is how my brother keeps 
 his word!" 
 
 "As you will have it," said Philippe. 
 
 The two men stood for a space, irreso 
 lute, a deadly fire glinting in their eyes, 
 their fists clenched, like savage beasts 
 waiting to spring at each other's throat. 
 
 Then Philippe, with the sang froid that 
 had carried him through many such 
 scenes in his life, turned on his heel and 
 strode out of the barn. 
 
 Nazaire, atremble with rage, watched 
 the receding figure till the door of the 
 kitchen had opened and closed again. 
 
 "Some day!" he exclaimed with a 
 frightful oath, his hand raised to heaven. 
 Then he, too, passed out of the barn. 
 
 There was fuel to be cut for the winter. 
 
 He shouldered an axe and started off 
 towards the wood that skirted the farm.
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN. 
 
 Summer waned, red and golden on the 
 hill tops. 
 
 Day by day, the crisp, sere leaves 
 fluttered over the earth, like wounded 
 fledgelings. The lutes of the wind intoned 
 the requiem of flower and song. The sun 
 rose in a blanket of clinging mist. The 
 night dews were cold and drenching. 
 Vast, cloud-like flocks of feathered voy 
 agers sailed by each day, on their way to 
 the southland. The robins carrolled their 
 farewell song and winged away. 
 
 Swift, hurrying scuds of cloud raced, 
 like black-draped chariots, across the 
 cheerless sky. The leafless trees stretched 
 their bare arms to heaven, in mute appeal. 
 The rushing winds whipped and stung. 
 Winter, white-robed, cold and pitiless, 
 was at hand. 
 
 [65]
 
 66 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Isabelle was lonely. 
 
 She had hoped that time would adapt 
 her to her surroundings, that the crude- 
 ness of the environment might take on 
 something of charm to her eyes. She had 
 wished many times that she might acquire 
 the vision of life that had been given to 
 Pierre, the satisfying philosophy that was 
 her mother's. In these hopes she had been 
 doomed to disappointment. 
 
 She knew by deep-rooted instinct that 
 this was the cleaner life, the better part. 
 But the calm serenity of the long days, the 
 tomb-like stillness of the nights filled her, 
 at times, with a sense of desolation that 
 spurred her to flee, to be away from the 
 crushing spell. 
 
 She and Randon had reached a stage 
 of intimate camaraderie which gave her 
 pleasure in their meetings. More than 
 once she revealed her feelings to him. He 
 appeared to sympathize, to understand. 
 
 Different natures, he told her, required 
 different settings. 
 
 He himself had no thought of settling
 
 The Golden Poppy 67 
 
 down to practice in St. John's or Lamar- 
 tinette. He must have a larger field of 
 activity. Besides, it was no greater 
 undertaking to struggle for success in a 
 large city than in a hamlet. 
 
 One day, he spoke more clearly of his 
 hopes. Girard had told him all. His for 
 tune totaled something under three thou 
 sand dollars. A purchaser had been found 
 for the homestead. He was preparing to 
 leave St. John's. He was going to Mont 
 real. Would she become his wife? 
 
 They were standing on the edge of the 
 corn field, near the brook in which she 
 had played with Pierre years agone. 
 
 Somehow she thought of him now of 
 Pierre the mild-rnannered, the good. 
 
 Would he ever wed? 
 
 What sort of woman would he take for 
 wife? 
 
 He was so silent about himself. 
 
 Randon was speaking. 
 
 She roused from her musing to hear 
 him. 
 
 It would be but a short time a bridge
 
 68 The Golden Poppy 
 
 to cross and he would have a practice. 
 He had enough to tide them over. 
 
 A great pumpkin, which she had not 
 noticed until now, loomed, round and 
 garish in the light of the rising moon. 
 
 She felt him reaching for her hand, 
 under her cape. Then he drew her face 
 around to his and gazed steadfastly into 
 her eyes for what seemed a long while to 
 her. 
 
 He had never kissed her. 
 
 "Will you be mine?" he said, very 
 softly. 
 
 A feeling akin to sadness stole over 
 her. She shuddered as from cold. 
 
 A little ship sailed by, child-made and 
 crude. Then another; and another; a 
 flotilla. And she and Pierre were waving 
 them Godspeed as they took the current 
 of the babbling stream. 
 
 Would Pierre ever marry? 
 
 "And what kind of a girl " 
 
 "Isabelle!" 
 
 She turned back again to David. Her
 
 The Golden Poppy 69 
 
 face was pale in the moonlight. Her eyes 
 stared like a frightened child's. 
 
 "Do you love me?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, yes with all my heart." 
 
 She rested her head upon his breast 
 and smiled. 
 
 The round, white moon, the purling 
 brook, the stilly, star-domed vast beheld 
 their betrothal kiss.
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT. 
 
 On the morrow Randon came over from 
 St. John's to make his adieux and acquaint 
 the parent Labelles with his engagement 
 to their daughter. 
 
 The mother came into the parlor, her 
 hands extended in welcome. 
 
 "I congratulate you, Doctor Randon," 
 she smiled. 
 
 Isabelle had told her. 
 
 Oh, it would be so lonely with "her 
 baby" gone. She was just beginning to 
 see a bit of sunshine. And now, clouds 
 again. What a constant rending life was ! 
 But, she' braved smilingly through it and 
 soon left the lovers alone in the room. 
 
 Presently Philippe came into the house. 
 There was mud on his boots and he 
 smelled strongly of the stable. Mrs. La- 
 
 |70]
 
 The Golden Poppy 71 
 
 belle told him briefly that Randon wished 
 to see him in the parlor. 
 
 He passed out of the kitchen without 
 making reply and into the room where the 
 young people were waiting. 
 
 A protracted visit to the inn of the 
 widow Duclos, accounted for the deep 
 flush that reddened the tan of his face. He 
 straightened perceptibly as his hand 
 turned the knob of the door. He stood 
 on the threshold with the air of an over 
 lord. 
 
 "You wish to see me, Monsieur?" he 
 enquired. 
 
 Randon came straight to the point. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I am here to ask you 
 for the hand of your daughter." 
 
 "She is willing? Isabelle is willing?" 
 
 "Yes we are engaged with your 
 approval, of course." 
 
 "You are prepared to give her as good 
 a home as she has been accustomed to?" 
 
 The farmer was enjoying the moment 
 immensely. He had learned the true 
 state of affairs in the Randon estate.
 
 72 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "I cannot say that," the young man 
 replied. "As matters now stand, I have 
 little beyond my profession and a future. 
 Isabelle knows my circumstances and is 
 satisfied." 
 
 "Well, after all," the great man con 
 ceded, "it is for her to say. It is she who 
 will have to live with you." 
 
 He cleared his throat, like a judge 
 about to pronounce sentence. 
 
 "And as she makes her bed, so will she 
 lie. You have my consent, both of you. 
 And I hope you will make a success of 
 your menage." 
 
 Randon thanked him for his good 
 wishes. 
 
 For a moment Labelle gazed from one 
 to the other of the lovers, in silence. He 
 felt impelled to speak, to say something 
 worthy the occasion. But his thoughts 
 clashed wretchedly and the words died 
 unuttered upon his lips. He was visibly 
 embarrassed. 
 
 He mumbled something about a sick 
 horse requiring attention and left the
 
 The Golden Poppy 73 
 
 room, deeply confused. In the stable he 
 came upon Pierre, who was pitching down 
 hay for the stock. 
 
 "Well," said Labelle, "they're engaged 
 to be married." 
 
 The young man straightened up from 
 his work and gazed fixedly at the speaker. 
 
 "You mean" 
 
 "Isabelle and Randon, of course. Who 
 else?" 
 
 Pierre stood a long while, his strong, 
 brown hands clasped over the fork handle, 
 his dark eyes hazy in thought. At last 
 he said: 
 
 "Randon is a lucky man a very lucky 
 man. I congratulate him." 
 
 "And how about Isabelle?" demanded 
 the father. "Is she not to be congratu 
 lated as well?" 
 
 "That I don't know," Pierre replied, 
 going back to his task.
 
 CHAPTER NINE. 
 
 It was late that night when Randon 
 took his leave of Isabelle. A crooning 
 breeze played among the leaves of the 
 maples. From the brook on the edge of 
 the corn field rose a persistent chorus of 
 song. A white disc of moon hung from 
 the limb of a tree on the spur of a distant 
 hill, like a silver lantern. 
 
 Isabelle stood on the veranda watching 
 the car as it receded into the shadows. A 
 sense of utter loneliness swept over her, 
 now that he was gone. She went into the 
 house and tip-toed her way to her room. 
 
 That night, arm in arm with David, she 
 wandered over many miles of streets, 
 meeting glad faces, viewing strange and 
 wondrous scenes. 
 
 He was a great man and she his lady 
 fair. The gay city smiled down upon 
 
 [74]
 
 75 
 
 them. They were very happy. It seemed 
 to her that she had slept but a few mo 
 ments when Ernestine called her for 
 breakfast. The reality of the new day 
 closed in heavily upon her. He was gone. 
 It would be very lonely without him. She 
 wished that Ernestine had let her sleep. 
 She crossed the room to the window and 
 gazed out upon the day. Her eyes dwelt 
 fondly upon the road below, which had 
 led him to her so many times. 
 
 She turned to his photograph, in a sil 
 ver frame on the dresser. Taking it in 
 both her pretty hands, she gazed fixedly 
 into the eyes of the likeness and pressed 
 the picture to her lips in a long, fervid 
 kiss. Then she dressed and went down to 
 the dining-room, where her mother was 
 waiting. 
 
 Isabelle was delighted with the pros 
 pect of dwelling in the metropolis. The 
 beckoning mysteries of the city thrilled 
 her young soul. 
 
 She longed for the day when she might 
 go forth from her stifling surroundings
 
 76 The Golden Poppy 
 
 toward the open portals of her dream 
 land. She would be happy then. 
 
 It had been agreed by her and David 
 to wed in the spring. He would come to 
 claim his bride and carry her off to their 
 future abode. 
 
 Day by day the winds grew colder. The 
 shortening days dragged by slowly under 
 a leaden sky. 
 
 Letters came, at frequent intervals, 
 from David, in which he told of his work 
 as an interne at St. Malachi's. He had 
 been assigned to ambulance work. He 
 saw much misery about him. He had 
 little time to himself. The life of an in 
 terne teemed with duties, which required 
 his presence in the hospital both night and 
 day. 
 
 The months that followed prescribed 
 manifold activities for Isabelle. There 
 was her trousseau to prepare. Letters to 
 write. A share of the household duties, 
 which she insisted must be performed by 
 her. Mrs. Labelle appeared to be break-
 
 The Golden Poppy 77 
 
 ing. Her impaired condition required 
 many little attentions. 
 
 Philippe now spent much of his time in 
 the tap-room of the widow Duclos. He 
 usually came home loud and quarrelsome. 
 He drew many checks on the village bank, 
 of late. In his sober hours he was mo 
 rose and, for the most part, silent. 
 
 One day, in the early part of November 
 the sun rose in a blur of blackish cloud. 
 A piercing wind whipped the crisp, rat 
 tling leaves into little mounds along the 
 highway and in the open spaces. 
 
 Towards noon, a stinging, powdery 
 snow began to fall. 
 
 Soon, the faded surface of the earth was 
 mantled with a thick covering of white. 
 As the day wore* on, the wind increased 
 in fury, beating the snow into an endless 
 chain of drifts. Towards night the sky 
 cleared. The roar of the winter wind sub 
 sided to a death-room whisper among the 
 stark, trembling trees. The moon rose 
 over a frozen, crystal waste.
 
 CHAPTER TEN. 
 
 Through the long, white months that 
 followed, there was comparatively little 
 for the men to do about the farm. 
 
 Each day the stock were fed, the cows 
 milked, the stalls and ducts cleaned and 
 new beds of straw laid for the patient 
 beasts. 
 
 If the day was fine, they were turned 
 out for a few hours in the clear, crisp air. 
 
 Labelle had taken, of late, to spending 
 much of his time in the village, leaving 
 the work, for the most part, to Pierre and 
 Nazaire. 
 
 These two, though by no means un 
 friendly, held little communion together. 
 They came and went their separate ways, 
 with a nod of the head, a "bon jour," or 
 an "au revoir." 
 
 Since the announcement of Isabelle's 
 
 [78]
 
 79 
 
 engagement Pierre had turned sombre 
 and pensive. He spent much time in his 
 room, reading. To Isabelle he was ap 
 parently the same as ever, kindly, solici 
 tous and thoughtful. 
 
 When the sky was clear and the sun 
 unfurled his gray blankets of cloud to 
 gaze about over the earth, Pierre would 
 propose a sleigh ride in the country. 
 
 Such was always a welcome event to 
 Isabelle, who delighted in the throbbing 
 music of the bells, in the fleeing pano 
 rama of pine-clad hills, in the shimmering 
 whiteness of the rolling country. 
 
 To her eyes Pierre had never changed. 
 He was, today, the same faith-abiding, 
 rugged child of the soil that had been her 
 barefoot hero years agone. 
 
 She ofttimes marvelled at the gap that 
 had opened, by slow degrees, between 
 them. 
 
 She wondered if he, too, had sensed the 
 widening of the little circle of their life 
 and if he saw the whirl in the troubled 
 waters between them. She could not
 
 8o The Golden Poppy 
 
 know, from his manner towards her, what 
 poignant hungering had gnawed his 
 heart. Nor could she tell that her going 
 forth, another's wife, must mean the 
 crumbling of his fondest hopes. One day, 
 when they were children in the meadows, 
 there had been a wedding. 
 
 Pierre was the happy groom; Isabelle 
 the smiling bride. 
 
 Other little ones, from the neighboring 
 farms, were the cure, the best man, brides 
 maids and guests. 
 
 Mamman Labelle served the wedding 
 feast in a shady corner of the orchard. 
 There was a frosted cake; and lemonade; 
 and apples; and plums. It was a great 
 event; and was not soon forgotten. 
 
 As the years went by, the golden child 
 hood hour of make-believe became a cher 
 ished memory in the heart of Pierre, a 
 sacred symbol of his future happiness. 
 Through the seven years of her absence 
 from the homestead he waited the day of 
 her final coming with the smiling patience 
 of hope. It had not dawned upon him
 
 The Golden Poppy 81 
 
 that time is the hand-servant of oblivion, 
 that childhood love is but a tender flower 
 and has not long to live. 
 
 He had noted, with growing apprehen 
 sion, the changing moods of her letters 
 which became more and more infrequent 
 as time went by. 
 
 A disconcerting queenliness of bearing, 
 which came to her with adolescence, 
 stayed the glad welcome on his lips and 
 chilled his heart with doubt upon her re 
 turn to Lamartinette. 
 
 Somewhere along the way of the years 
 she had outgrown her little self of the 
 meadows. 
 
 But Pierre, steadfast and staunch, re 
 mained a watchful worshipper, albeit the 
 lovely tenant of his shrine had long since 
 departed. 
 
 One day, in mid-winter, the sun shone 
 bright over the hills, a few faithful spar 
 rows twittered hopefully in the leafless 
 trees and the snow turned soft and pliant 
 to the foot. 
 
 Towards noon, Pierre came in from the
 
 82 The Golden Poppy 
 
 barns, his work done for the day. Na- 
 zaire would do the evening chores. Pierre 
 had business at the Point, a little town on 
 the edge of Lake Champlain, some 
 eighteen miles away. The roads were in 
 perfect condition. Would Isabelle care 
 for the drive ? 
 
 Indeed, she would be delighted to go. 
 
 And so, an hour later, they had left 
 Lamartinette behind them and were well 
 out in the open country. 
 
 Far as the eye could see, rolled an end 
 less, dazzling vista of crystal white. The 
 sleigh bells shrilled their silvery voices 
 over the silent waste. Along the high 
 way, farm houses rose, at long intervals, 
 and sank again below the verge, peaceful 
 sentinels of thrift and fireside happiness. 
 Charlemagne, a splendid bay that Pierre 
 had owned from birth, was in his finest 
 fettle. His proud head high in air, his 
 long, graceful body swinging to the 
 rhythm of the bells, it was his holiday as 
 much as theirs who rode behind. 
 
 Here and there a rabbit started off
 
 The Golden Poppy 83 
 
 across the snow, zigzagged a bit and, 
 stopping suddenly, sat upon its haunches 
 to crane and listen. 
 
 They reached the Point a little after 
 three. The wind was rising now. A cold, 
 raw wind out of the northeast. The sky 
 was clouding over rapidly. The sun had 
 disappeared behind a rising scud. 
 
 Pierre slung a blanket over Charle 
 magne and tethered him beneath the shel 
 ter of a shed. 
 
 Then, together with Isabelle, he went 
 about the business of his journey. 
 
 An hour later, when they drove out 
 onto the road that led to Lamartinette, a 
 heavy snow was falling, driven by a pierc 
 ing wind. It was growing dark. 
 
 As they passed the last outpost of the 
 town, a large white structure overlooking 
 the lake, Pierre gazed into the girl's eyes 
 and read the question there. 
 
 "Charlemagne can do it," he replied. 
 She was about to speak, to assure him 
 that she was not afraid. But the roar and
 
 84 The Golden Poppy 
 
 rush of the wind stopped the words on her 
 lips. 
 
 Leaving the reins to the horse, Pierre 
 took the great fur robe from the back of 
 the sleigh and wrapped it securely around 
 his companion. Then he covered her feet 
 with the blanket and drew the front robe 
 about them both. 
 
 They were now in the open country. 
 The wind had a knife-like edge. The cold 
 stung his fingers keenly. He slipped the 
 reins over his head and buried his hands 
 in the thick folds of the robe. Charle 
 magne had caught the challenge of the 
 storm. He knew the road and his heart 
 was brave. Too, he understood full well 
 the task. He would not be found want 
 ing. With the speed of a racer he plunged 
 into the whirling maze. No tug of the 
 reins was needed. No word of command. 
 He had never known the smart of a whip, 
 the sting of an unkind word. 
 
 The wind was now blowing straight 
 from the north. A blinding onrush of 
 snow beat into their faces, shutting out
 
 The Golden Poppy 85 
 
 all view. Darkness came on apace. It 
 fell with the swiftness of a curtain. From 
 rolling drifts the gallant horse fought on 
 into rising billows of soft, sand-like snow. 
 Unerringly he felt his way through the 
 raging blizzard. Slowly, grudgingly he 
 tired, as bank after bank rose higher in 
 the endless road. He had weakened to a 
 labored walk and was barely moving 
 along over an interminable succession of 
 snow hills. 
 
 Presently the sleigh turned out, as it 
 seemed, with a great effort. The two 
 travelers felt themselves lifted slowly to 
 the crest of a mountainous drift; then 
 lowered to the other side. The dash 
 board struck hard against some object, 
 invisible in the storm, and they came to a 
 stop. Charlemagne neighed loudly. 
 Pierre alighted and made his way stiffly 
 forward, his outstretched hands groping 
 in the darkness. The snow was above his 
 knees. He had not far to go. As he felt 
 about him, his hand came upon what he 
 knew to be the corner of a log structure.
 
 86 77? ^ Golden Poppy 
 
 "The Mourette cabin !" he shouted joy 
 fully to Isabelle. 
 
 But the girl did not hear him, so loud 
 was the din of the storm. 
 
 With much effort he plodded on, feeling 
 his way, until his hands were on the bob 
 bin of the door. With the eagerness of 
 despair he pressed down. The latch re 
 sponded readily. The door went wide, 
 flung by the shrieking wind. He stag 
 gered in and closed the door. From an 
 inner pocket be brought forth matches 
 and made a light. 
 
 An oil hanging-lamp was suspended 
 from a crossbeam. He touched the match 
 flame to the charred circle of wick and 
 was deeply grateful for the mellow light 
 which it poured softly over the tenantless 
 room. 
 
 This done, he faced the storm again. 
 The swirl of the wind was strangling. 
 
 With awful fury it flung him back into 
 the room as it might a leaf. 
 
 Three times he renewed the attempt, 
 without success.
 
 The Golden Poppy 87 
 
 Again he went forth, this time bending 
 low; and with a rush. 
 
 But the light in the little casement had 
 flashed its dim message to Isabelle; and 
 she had ventured the crossing. 
 
 As Pierre leaped across the threshold 
 into the maw of the storm, she caught the 
 gleam through the opening doorway and 
 felt him sink into the snow beside her. 
 
 They struggled through the opening 
 and shut the door. 
 
 "It's the Mourette cabin," said Pierre, 
 when he had recovered his breath. 
 
 Isabelle nodded understanding. 
 
 She was spent from the ordeal and 
 made no effort at speech. 
 
 There was but one room in the cabin, 
 a square, spacious apartment, built on the 
 scheme of a hunter's lodge. 
 
 Bear skins lay about over the floor. 
 
 A staunch, unpolished oak table took 
 up the center of the room. Some legal 
 volumes lay upon it. 
 
 There was a great brick fireplace in the
 
 wall; and, beside it, an imposing pile of 
 maple logs. 
 
 There were numerous books on shelves. 
 
 A wooden, box-like couch had been 
 built in a corner of the room, to serve 
 the dual purpose of chest and bed. 
 
 The blankets on the couch were dis 
 turbed, as though someone who had been 
 sleeping might have been rudely awak 
 ened and called away. 
 
 A little door opened into a closet which 
 had been used as a pantry. 
 
 Pierre set about to build a fire. 
 
 The draught roared up the great brick 
 chimney. 
 
 The log of seasoned maple crackled and 
 flamed, dispensing warmth and radiance. 
 
 Pierre drew a chair to the fireplace for 
 the girl and announced his intention of 
 going to the rescue of Charlemagne. 
 
 "What can you do for the poor fellow ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied. "I'm think 
 ing it will be largely a matter of what he 
 can do for himself. But I have to release
 
 The Golden Poppy 89 
 
 him, to free him from the sleigh. As it is, 
 he is held fast and cannot move. There 
 is a lean-to, a shelter in the rear of the 
 cabin. Charlemagne knows about it. 
 That is why he turned off the road and 
 fought his way here. You see, he and I 
 have been here many times in the past. I 
 knew Judge Mourette very well. He used 
 to sit there, by the table, and smoke; and 
 this was my seat by the window." 
 
 From a drawer in the table, he brought 
 forth a large, horn-handled hunting knife. 
 He opened it and tested the edge against 
 his thumb. Then, the steel blade flashing 
 in his hand, he crossed over to the door 
 and a moment later was gone. 
 
 An hour passed before he returned. It 
 was a long time before he could speak. 
 He said : 
 
 "I got there just in time. I ripped off 
 the harness and he made straight for the 
 lean-to, as I expected he would. There is 
 hay in the feed rack. It was getting back 
 here that took so long. I thought I would 
 never make it."
 
 9O The Golden Poppy 
 
 He went into the pantry and brought 
 out tea, biscuits and canned salmon. He 
 melted snow, with which to brew the tea. 
 They soon had a tempting meal. They 
 ate heartily. 
 
 It was now late. 
 
 "You will sleep there," said Pierre, 
 pointing to the lounge. 
 
 "And you?" she rejoined. 
 
 "Oh, I will rest to-morrow. To-night, 
 I must watch the fire. You see, there is 
 danger in the flying sparks. And we 
 can't let the fire die out." 
 
 So, she lay down on the couch and was 
 soon asleep. And through the long hours 
 of the night Pierre stood watch over the 
 flaming log without ever a thought to the 
 fires that smouldered in his heart. 
 
 Daybreak bellowed in upon them bleak 
 and gray. 
 
 It was late when Isabelle awoke. 
 
 Pierre sat beside her, his chin upon his 
 breast, his hands hanging limp. 
 
 The fireplace glowed red and warm 
 with burning coals.
 
 For a long while she lay upon the 
 couch, her mind adrift. 
 
 The wind shrieked without. The swirl 
 of the storm shut out the perspective. 
 
 She gazed upon the peaceful face before 
 her and pondered the strange mettle of 
 the sleeper. Certainly all men were not 
 like him. If only he had broadened out 
 from his narrow circle. If he had taken 
 the eaglet's flight. How far might 
 he not have gone? He might have been 
 a leader of men; one of the great. How 
 could he ever hope to attain, if he himself 
 felt no spur to achievement? If only he 
 had broken free of his fetters and chosen 
 a wider range of life. As it was, his lot 
 would be the plough, a wife, children and 
 the grave. The glory which might be his, 
 the fame he might win, that would live 
 on the lips of future generations, was 
 gone the way of the fire-fly, glimmering 
 into darkness. 
 
 Pierre stirred in his seat and his eyes 
 opened wide and rested upon her.
 
 92 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Bon jour!" he laughed. "You have 
 rested well?" 
 
 A soft tinge of color suffused her 
 cheeks. 
 
 She threw aside the blankets and sat 
 up on the edge of the bunk. 
 
 "Yes, I slept soundly," she said, avert 
 ing her gaze to the window. 
 
 Her wealth of golden hair tumbled in 
 shimmering waves over her shoulders. 
 Her sleep-laden eyes rested abstractedly 
 on the dreary scene without. She was 
 perplexed by their situation. But, an in 
 nate delicacy which was hers precluded 
 confidences to her companion. Not from 
 any motive born of prudery. But from 
 a higher sense of kindness, a shrinking 
 unwillingness to offend or wound the sen 
 sibilities of others. 
 
 Pierre noted her mood. He said no 
 more; but busied himself with the fire and 
 the melting of snow for their morning 
 ablutions and the breakfast tea. 
 
 He discovered a crock of salt pork in 
 the pantry.
 
 The Golden Poppy 93 
 
 Isabella fried slices of the meat in an 
 iron skillet, while Pierre brewed the tea 
 and made ready the table. 
 
 A plentiful supply of crackers was left. 
 
 They ate with gusto; and after break 
 fast Pierre filled one of the judge's pipes 
 with tobacco from a stone jar and smoked. 
 
 After a while he told her the story of 
 Judge Mourette and how the cabin came 
 to be built. 
 
 Mourette had taken for wife a young 
 habitant girl from St. Gregoire, when he 
 was still in his twenties. The Mourettes 
 were moneyed folk. So, the judge, then 
 a fledgeling lawyer, took his bride to the 
 present homestead of the family, an im 
 posing mansion on the outskirts of La- 
 martinette. Within a few years he be 
 came the father of three daughters. He 
 had risen rapidly in his profession and 
 was apparently a man to be envied, when 
 scandal descended upon his roof. From 
 the day, many years ago, when Mourette 
 returned home unexpectedly and con 
 fronted the mother of his children with
 
 94 The Golden Poppy 
 
 her guilt, he maintained a stony silence 
 in his house. 
 
 He came and went as a stranger, never 
 speaking. 
 
 It was shortly after the discovery of 
 his wife's unfaithfulness that Mourette 
 built the cabin they were now in. 
 
 Standing on the edge of a maple forest 
 owned by him, the place served as a re 
 treat from the world during the holidays 
 and court vacations. 
 
 Here he surrounded himself with his 
 beloved books, his favorite pipes. 
 
 In the course of time he was elevated 
 to the bench. 
 
 His hair and sweeping beard turned 
 snowy white. 
 
 He walked erect, proud and thought 
 ful, through the streets, along the coun 
 try roads, always alone. The children 
 loved him. 
 
 His daughters grew to womanhood. 
 They were fair to look upon. But none 
 had wed. 
 
 The old judge had shown a kindly in-
 
 The Golden Poppy 95 
 
 terest in Pierre who, as a youth, had 
 made frequent visits to the cabin. 
 
 It had been a favorite pastime of the 
 growing boy to ride in the saddle over the 
 countryside. 
 
 Thus he had come to the cabin and thus 
 he had known the judge. 
 
 "I never heard the story before," said 
 Isabelle. 
 
 "It seems they all have their tragedies. 
 Who would have thought " 
 
 "When he died some months ago," 
 Pierre went on, "no will was found, so 
 little did he seem to care." 
 
 "I knew him," said Isabelle. "He would 
 pat me on the head as I passed him on 
 the street. He always carried a cane. A 
 lovable character." 
 
 She turned to the window, and back 
 to Pierre. 
 
 "What shall we do?" she asked. 
 
 "I can't say," he rejoined, and fell to 
 thinking. 
 
 "There were snowshoes here," he said 
 presently: "Several pairs of them."
 
 96 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Oh, in that event/' she exclaimed, "we 
 could go. But/' she added, by way of 
 afterthought, "what of Charlemagne?" 
 
 "We haven't found the snowshoes yet," 
 he smiled. 
 
 Towards noon the wind abated. 
 
 Soon the sky cleared and the sun broke 
 forth on the hill tops. 
 
 "The storm is over," said the girl. 
 
 Pierre had swung himself aloft, onto 
 the crossbeams, where boards had been 
 laid as a flooring for the storage of sundry 
 articles belonging to the late owner. 
 
 "Here they are," he cried presently. 
 "Snowshoes and moccasins!" 
 
 "Dieu merci !" she exclaimed. "We can 
 be home tonight." 
 
 In the chest they found a supply of 
 thick woolen stockings, such as are used 
 by the habitants in wintry weather. The 
 moccasins and snowshoes were in good 
 condition. 
 
 They were soon ready for the home 
 ward tramp. 
 
 In the lean-to Pierre found Charle-
 
 The Golden Poppy 97 
 
 magne, alert and anxious to depart. He 
 required no urging; but followed his mas 
 ter readily into the open. He could, 
 thought Pierre, make his way, alone and 
 unhampered, back to Lamartinette. The 
 distance was, perhaps, five miles. 
 
 Dusk had settled over the silent waste 
 when the two travelers turned off the 
 snowbound highway and dragged their 
 weary limbs to a halt in the doorway of 
 the homestead. 
 
 Mrs. Labelle was overjoyed to see the 
 returning "children," as she still called 
 them. She laid meat and listened, with 
 wondering eyes, to her daughter's recital 
 of their experience. Isabelle decided to 
 wait until she was alone with her mother 
 to tell of passing the night in the cabin. 
 
 Philippe had gone to Lamartinette 
 shortly after their departure for the Point ; 
 and had not yet returned. 
 
 Ernestine sat by the fire, a book in her 
 lap, and listened attentively to the con 
 versation.
 
 98 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Nazaire came in to warm himself be 
 fore leaving. 
 
 The chores were done and Charle 
 magne, who had reached home ahead of 
 them, was none the worse for the expo 
 sure. Where had they spent the night ? 
 
 At a house along the way, Isabelle has 
 tened to reply. They were not half-way 
 when the storm had made it impossible to 
 proceed further. 
 
 "I see," said Nazaire, lighting his pipe. 
 
 He pulled down his "tuque" over his 
 ears and jerked the red sash snug about 
 his waist. 
 
 His bulbous eyes swept furtively over 
 the little group as he said: 
 
 "I was thinking it might be a run-away 
 match." 
 
 Ernestine glanced quickly from Pierre 
 to Isabelle, who remained silent. 
 
 "It would be a shame," persisted Na 
 zaire, enjoying his own wit, "to cheat 
 Monsieur le docteur of his bride." 
 
 He leered evilly as he spoke. But his
 
 The Golden Poppy 99 
 
 words went unheeded. He reddened and 
 concluded sheepishly: 
 
 "Eh bien, I must be off. I will be over 
 early in the morning. Bon soir." 
 
 "Bon soir," said Pierre, more in a spirit 
 of thankfulness than of brotherly love.
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN. 
 
 The women were now at work on the 
 trousseau. 
 
 Philomene came over in the morning, 
 after seeing to the duties of her menage, 
 and remained until well along in the day, 
 when she went home to prepare supper 
 for Nazaire. 
 
 She was a tall, red-haired, angular 
 woman with small, squinting eyes and 
 straight, thin-lipped mouth. 
 
 She knew the chronology of Lamartin- 
 ette better than did the Cure himself, who 
 had been the shepherd of the flock for 
 more than forty years. 
 
 She reveled in the gossip of the village. 
 She journeyed from house to house, sew 
 ing by the day, her ears ever alert, her 
 eyes on the qui vive, her tongue eagerly 
 
 [100]
 
 The Golden Poppy 101 
 
 dispensing to the curious the latest news, 
 the most recent scandal. 
 
 It was in the person of Philomene that 
 her worthy lord received the stimulus of 
 his ambition for a better living wage. 
 She never grew weary of her denunciation 
 of Philippe. 
 
 On the contrary, she made it the sauce 
 of their meagre meals, the sing-song, 
 never-ending refrain of their little lives. 
 
 She would return, weary and bitter, 
 from her day's labor in the houses of 
 plenty and cook the coarse fare for their 
 evening meal. 
 
 While Nazaire, his egg-like head bent 
 low over the plate, ate his salted pork and 
 potatoes, and sucked cautious draughts of 
 hot tea, Philomene regaled him with the 
 newest morsel of gossip from the village. 
 
 The wretched squalor of their home 
 was never forgotten; the seeming hope 
 lessness of their advancing life. 
 
 By direct assault or by careful allusion 
 she would drive home her points, with 
 gathering force, until the torpid brain of
 
 IO2 
 
 Nazaire was whipped into a blind, unrea 
 soning rage. 
 
 "Never mind!" he would exclaim, in a 
 thick, gutteral voice. "It shall not always 
 be so. Some day, he will pay me the 
 good-for-nothing !" 
 
 "But, when?" she would nag on. 
 
 "When the time comes to pay, he will 
 pay. I am not asleep, as he thinks. My 
 fine brother will talk to me. There will 
 come a day when he cannot put me off. 
 I am watching. I am no fool of his. I 
 will open his eyes, one of these fine days." 
 
 "But, how are you going to do it?" 
 Philomene would persist. 
 
 "How? I don't know how. If I knew, 
 I would not be sitting here, up to my nose 
 in debt. But, just the same, it will come. 
 Wait and see. Wait and see, I tell you!" 
 
 It was upon her return from the home 
 of Philippe Labelle that she would wax 
 eloquent in her attacks. She played upon 
 the envy of Nazaire with cunning art, 
 never failing to accomplish her end. 
 
 "If your brother Philippe," she would
 
 The Golden Poppy 103 
 
 begin, "was the proper sort, " or : "now, 
 if Philippe had the heart of a stone " 
 and again: "of course there are brothers 
 and brothers " 
 
 "To be sure," she would concede, "his 
 goods are his own; and we have no right 
 to share them. But, why does he refuse 
 to pay for honest toil ? Why does he turn 
 a deaf ear to common justice? Where 
 could he find a man to take your place? 
 Does he suppose we will endure it for 
 ever?" 
 
 "Listen to me, bonne femme," Nazaire 
 would confide for the hundredth time, 
 "you know why I have chosen to remain, 
 not to go with Duquette, who has been 
 wanting me? Because, so long as I am 
 here I have a hold on Philippe. If I 
 should leave, I would be less than a 
 stranger. It would not be wise for me to 
 make a change until I settle my account 
 with him." 
 
 At this he would wink an eye sagely 
 and stare across the table at his wife, who
 
 IO4 The Golden Poppy 
 
 sought in his words some hidden promise 
 of better days. 
 
 Thus did they barter along, bare of the 
 world's gifts, hoping for the morrows as 
 they came and went, their hands out 
 stretched for the crumbs of pity. 
 
 Pierre and Isabelle spent the long win 
 ter evenings before the fireplace. 
 
 He would read aloud from a book, 
 while Isabelle and her mother added a 
 touch here or there to some item of the 
 trousseau. The trousseau, that was 
 growing more wonderful each day. 
 
 Then, laying aside the book and the 
 garments of the bride to be, they would 
 watch the fitful saraband of the flames. 
 
 And when the hour was late and a 
 great stillness lay over the moon-bathed 
 snows, they rose and went their separate 
 ways. 
 
 Philippe Labelle had undergone a 
 marked change of late. Since the home 
 coming of Isabelle, he had spent most of 
 his leisure time in the village. 
 
 "La veuve Duclos" held open house for
 
 The Golden Poppy 105 
 
 all who had money and the inclination to 
 spend it. She was impartial with her 
 favors ; but leaned to the best filled purse, 
 the most liberal hand. She was young 
 and buxom, with raven hair, red lips and 
 black, flashing eyes. 
 
 She stood in the bad graces of the Cure 
 who had more than once condemned her 
 for leading astray otherwise good hus 
 bands and fathers of the parish. 
 
 Many were the courtiers who paid her 
 homage. And not the least among them 
 was Philippe Labelle. 
 
 Wild scenes were not uncommon at the 
 little inn. There were games of chance; 
 and bloody encounters; lewd songs; and 
 dancing ; and a loud display of vulgar wit. 
 Loose women of the village frequented 
 the place. Young men went there to 
 drink and make red love. La veuve Du- 
 clos watched the piastres pouring in; and 
 smiled. This was her chosen life. She 
 was a success. She was happy. The 
 Cure? Let him rant! Was he not, him 
 self, begging alms? Was he not in busi-
 
 106 The Golden Poppy 
 
 ness too? Parbleu! Who could manage 
 to live without money? And if the men, 
 her patrons, were satisfied, what had the 
 Cure to say about it? 
 
 So, Philippe, who found no pleasure in 
 his house, sought it elsewhere, never 
 questioning the price. 
 
 Night after night, he came home, long 
 after the others had retired, and climbed 
 the stairs unsteadily to his room. 
 
 Then, Pierre, who had been reading, 
 would steal noiselessly out of the house 
 and make his way to the barns, where he 
 ministered to the neglected horse of the 
 returning master. 
 
 He had given more thought to his voca 
 tion since he came to realize that Isabelle 
 was not for him. His plans had gone 
 awry. He would leave the farm. He had 
 a great desire to flee his memories. He 
 had turned the matter in his mind many 
 times ; always to the same conclusion : She 
 had plighted her troth to another. He 
 would not seek to have her break it. 
 
 He dreaded the approaching day when
 
 The Golden Poppy 107 
 
 she would go forth; the day that would 
 mean so much of happiness to her. 
 
 But he did not find it in his heart to 
 blame her. 
 
 For, she had not known the hopes that 
 had been his. 
 
 He had not told her of his love. 
 
 The fault was his own. 
 
 But, oh, the heartache of renunciation! 
 The wild, unhealing loneliness that must 
 be his through the years ! 
 
 Slowly the winter passed. 
 
 In the wanton April winds the snow 
 hills melted away, swelling brook and 
 creek into roaring rivers. The dull dun 
 of the fields turned a tender green. Gold 
 flowers spangled the earth. Returning 
 songsters carolled of bliss and love; and 
 built their little houses in the budding 
 trees. Spring in garlands of laughing 
 bloom came on the wings of May.
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE. 
 
 She stood before the ancient pier-glass 
 and gazed upon a lovely bride. 
 
 The snowy folds of her wedding gown 
 fell about the exquisite mould of her form 
 with the symmetry of Grecian grace. The 
 rise and fall of the rounded bosom, the 
 coral tint of her cheeks told plainly that 
 an hour was nigh of passing moment in 
 her young life. 
 
 On her brow was a wreath of orange 
 blossoms ; and in her hand she held a bou 
 quet of lilies-of-the-valley, symbolic of 
 herself in the mystic purity of maiden 
 hood. 
 
 All about her were cherished memories 
 of her childhood. They were rushing in 
 upon her now, pleading, caressing, tu 
 multuous. 
 
 She was leaving all behind. Forsaking 
 
 [108]
 
 The Golden Poppy 109 
 
 these loved voices of the past. Abandon 
 ing the true for the untried. 
 
 Would she find a new, a greater happi 
 ness? What would it all come to mean 
 in the end? 
 
 Through the open window the warm, 
 scented breath of June wafted into the 
 room, stirring the white mull curtains 
 lazily. From a field nearby came the song 
 of the whetstone on the scythe. Swallows 
 twittered in the eaves above the windows. 
 A distant cow-bell tinkled softly on the 
 still air. 
 
 She was alone. Why had her mother 
 gone? She felt, of a sudden, very lonely 
 deserted. A great wave of emotion 
 rose about her, whelming her, crush 
 ing her down. She felt the tears dam 
 ming her eyes and sought hard to stay 
 them. There were footsteps in the hall 
 without. She turned to the open door 
 way. 
 
 Pierre was standing on the threshold, 
 his strong face alight with a strange fire.
 
 110 
 
 She smiled bravely at the friend of her 
 childhood. 
 
 "Come in, Pierre," she said. 
 
 He was dressed in a suit of black, which 
 accentuated the pallor of his face. 
 
 "I have come to make my adieux, Isa- 
 belle," he began. 
 
 His hand went out to her, as he spoke. 
 
 She felt it grasp her own and suddenly 
 her throat pained and her eyes swam. 
 
 "I, too, am going away," he went on, 
 after a pause. "I am going to become 
 a Marist." 
 
 "A Brother!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 For a while they gazed at each other 
 in silence. 
 
 He smiled a little and released her hand. 
 
 "I don't understand," she said finally, 
 with an effort at composure. 
 
 She was beginning to fear that she un 
 derstood too well. 
 
 And now, with the swift impulse of 
 youth, she spoke again.
 
 The Golden Poppy in 
 
 "Then you cared !" she said in a whis 
 per. "You really cared !" 
 
 He made no reply. But she read the 
 answer in his eyes. 
 
 "I never knew/' she spoke, more to her 
 self than to him. Then: 
 
 "You never led me to think " 
 
 "I fear I took too much for granted. I 
 imagined we were still the boy and girl 
 of other days. 
 
 There was a tell-tale moistness in his 
 eyes as he added: 
 
 "I thought you were still my golden 
 poppy. You remember?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; as if it were but yesterday. 
 Scarlet poppies were nodding everywhere 
 in the wheat field. Off by itself was a 
 great yellow flower, seemingly deserted. 
 You plucked it and, saying it looked like 
 me, called it a golden poppy; and carried 
 it back to the house." 
 
 "I still have it, in one of my books. I 
 shall always keep it." 
 
 From below came the sounds of laugh 
 ter, where the guests were gathering for
 
 U2 The Golden Poppy 
 
 the journey to the church. The voice of 
 Philippe rang loud above the others. 
 
 On the highway, a lout shouted com 
 mands to a yoke of oxen. A crow cawed 
 brazenly in a cornfield, nearby. Someone 
 was mounting the stairs. Mamman La- 
 belle, no doubt. 
 
 The woman paled perceptibly. 
 
 She extended her hand to him. 
 
 "Good-bye, Pierre." 
 
 "Adieu, Isabelle." 
 
 Their hands were still clasped when 
 Mrs. Labelle entered the room. 
 
 "They are waiting, mes enfants," said 
 the mother. "Doctor Randon seems a bit 
 upset. The journey, I presume. Are you 
 quite ready, dear child ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mamman." 
 
 She stepped to the door, and, turning 
 back, cast a long, sweeping glance over 
 the room. 
 
 Then she was gone. 
 
 Randon was waiting at the foot of the 
 long stairway, the guests gathered about 
 him. His face was drawn and pale. He
 
 The Golden Poppy 113 
 
 wore a Prince Albert suit with a bouton- 
 niere of white geranium. 
 
 His face relaxed into a smile as Isabelle 
 came down the stairs to meet him. He 
 took her arm and led her out into the June 
 day, down the gravel pathway to a black 
 line of cars that were waiting. 
 
 On the broad parvis of the church, vil 
 lagers stood in groups, awaiting the ar 
 rival of the bridal party. 
 
 The wedding of Isabelle was an event. 
 It was a lucky groom who took to his bed 
 so beautiful a bride. And then, Philippe 
 Labelle, the father, was a man of means 
 and a shrewd one at that. Sacre! the 
 young couple would not have to want for 
 the necessities, to say the least. And, be 
 sides, the young man had a profession. 
 He was a doctor. Un homme instruit. 
 Parbleu! Some people were born with a 
 silver spoon. 
 
 Children lined the long boardwalk that 
 lay between the street and the church. 
 The main door of the edifice stood open. 
 The fluttering flames of wax tapers might
 
 H4 The Golden Poppy 
 
 be seen about a hollow square, in which 
 had reposed, but a few moments ago, the 
 remains of a departed soul. The sacristan 
 was about to remove the black wooden 
 candelabra and the low, flat repository on 
 which had rested the faithful servant on 
 his way to the grave. 
 
 The man went about his work in thor 
 ough fashion, with no show of emotion; 
 without a tear of sorrow for the dead, a 
 smile of gladness for the living. 
 
 The same hand that had sprinkled hya- 
 sope upon the dead would soon unite the 
 living in bonds of love. 
 
 There was a shifting of feet in the 
 crowd when the cars came to a stop before 
 the church. 
 
 As the cortege passed slowly up the 
 boardwalk, silence fell over the craning 
 throng. 
 
 Isabelle was beautiful. She was smil 
 ing happily. Randon walked beside her. 
 There was a touch of hauteur in the poise 
 of his head. He appeared quite at ease. 
 
 As the couple passed into the edifice,
 
 The Golden Poppy 115 
 
 the villagers surged through the side 
 doors, taking seats. 
 
 The Cure St. Georges, assisted by two 
 acolytes, stood waiting at the communion 
 rail. The reading of the ritual consumed 
 but a few moments. And now it was 
 over. 
 
 The Cure was smiling. 
 
 A subdued mingling of voices came 
 from the pews near the railing, which the 
 children, in their eagerness to see the 
 bride, had invaded. 
 
 Outside, in the glad, warm air of June, 
 Isabelle looked up into her husband's face 
 and smiled. 
 
 "What a day for a wedding!" she said. 
 
 A great feast was laid when they 
 reached home. There were stuffed tur 
 keys; and suckling pigs; and platters of 
 fried chicken and squab. And there were 
 potpies, such as only the habitants can 
 bake; and deep dishes of vegetables; and 
 wonderful sauces. There were pies; and 
 puddings; and French pastries; and ices; 
 and fruits from Montreal. Red wine
 
 n6 The Golden Poppy 
 
 gurgled merrily out of old bottles. And 
 portly jugs of ale stood about on the 
 tables, like jolly, fat monks, brimming 
 with bonhomie. There were great arm- 
 fuls of flowers from the garden, gathered 
 by Mamman Labelle and arranged by her 
 loving hands. And, over the voices, the 
 sounds of harp and violin. There was a 
 dance. And much merrymaking far into 
 the night. 
 
 But there were three who had taken 
 their departure early in the evening. 
 
 Randon and his bride were passengers 
 on an eastbound train. 
 
 Pierre had closed the gates of the world 
 behind him.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 
 
 "You see," said Philomene to Nazaire, 
 over their soup, the day after the wed 
 ding, "your brother Philippe had plenty 
 of money to squander on good wines and 
 fine things to eat. Even the music was 
 there. And la Boudreau is telling every 
 one who will lend an ear that he spent 
 no less than two hundred dollars last night 
 toasting the village at la veuve Duclos'. 
 Plenty of money, yes. But, mark me, my 
 man, the pighead is in a fair way to land 
 in the ditch!" 
 
 Nazaire glanced up from his soup and 
 their eyes met. 
 
 "I have been thinking the same, my 
 self," he said. "He is going a devilish 
 gait. He can't keep it up." 
 
 "And have you also thought how long 
 it took you and how hard you had to toil 
 
 [117]
 
 u8 The Golden Poppy 
 
 so that he could have that two hundred 
 dollars to toss over the bar and play the 
 grand monsieur?" 
 
 "Well said, bonne femme. Sacre, you 
 have spoken the truth! What then? Go 
 on!" 
 
 'That's it what then? I can't say. 
 But, one thing is sure, we must use our 
 heads. Not sit here, twirling our thumbs, 
 until it is too late. Do you know what 
 I thought of doing?" 
 
 "No What?" 
 
 "Well, maybe it would do no good. But, 
 just the same, I have almost decided to 
 see the Cure and lay the case before him. 
 He is the shepherd of the flock. He 
 preaches sermons telling us to be good, to 
 be charitable, to give to the Church, to 
 love the poor. And I thought I would ask 
 him for his opinion of a rich man who 
 denied his poor brother a decent wage. 
 Maybe the Cure would not tolerate such 
 injustice. He might take the matter in 
 hand and bring the great man to time." 
 
 "Eh, Bon Dieu!" exclaimed Nazaire,
 
 The Golden Poppy 119 
 
 striking the table with his fist, "it is the 
 wisdom of books you speak. It is mar 
 vellous to hear you. When is this to be 
 to-morrow to-day? Tell me!" 
 
 Philomene drew a corner of her blue 
 gingham apron across her thin, straight 
 line of mouth and, picking up a tin tea 
 spoon, played a harsh tattoo on the bare 
 wood of the table. 
 
 Finally she spoke. 
 
 "To-morrow," she announced with cool 
 finality. 
 
 "To-morrow ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You will go to the parish house?" 
 
 "No. Better still, the Cure will come 
 here. He will see how we are forced to 
 live through the meanness of the great 
 Philippe Labelle. 
 
 "But," rejoined Nazaire, "the Cure 
 does not make such calls. Now, if you 
 were sick " 
 
 "That is it : I will be sick. To-morrow 
 he is to take the last sacrament to old 
 Goyette. He will pass by the house.
 
 I2O The Golden Poppy 
 
 When he is driving back from the sick 
 call, I will be at the window and call him. 
 The rest will be easy. I had a fainting 
 spell. I was alone and afraid. I had seen 
 him go by the house and knew he would 
 be back. So, I waited at the window. 
 Then, I will tell him what I want him to 
 know." 
 
 "You astonish me!" gasped Nazaire. 
 
 Then, the afterthought: 
 
 "I am almost afraid of you. I believe 
 you could send a man to the gallows if 
 you once set out to do it." 
 
 He stared down stupidly at his pea 
 soup, saying no more. 
 
 Presently, he dropped his spoon into the 
 bowl and rose from the table. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Philo- 
 mene. 
 
 "To the fields," he replied. 
 
 In the doorway he turned his face to 
 her. 
 
 She had gone back to her soup. 
 
 "And if your plan falls through, if the 
 Cure should refuse to act, what then?"
 
 The Golden Poppy 121 
 
 Her round little eyes glinted fire as she 
 snapped : 
 
 "Are you not old enough to use your 
 wits? If my plan goes wrong, can you 
 not find one that will do? He is your 
 brother; not mine. Remember that!" 
 
 On the morrow, she proceeded to the 
 execution of her scheme, by removing to 
 the attic such articles as might serve to 
 modify, in the mind of the Cure, her rep 
 resentations of abject poverty. This done, 
 she put the house in order for the day and 
 sat down by the window to wait. 
 
 As the little clock on the shelf ticked off 
 the succeeding minutes, she grew to a 
 high state of suspense. 
 
 She would rise and peer, this way and 
 that, down the long country road, for 
 some sign of the expected vehicle. 
 
 Then, chagrined with each disappoint 
 ment, she would pace the rude plank floor, 
 back and forth, like one imprisoned in a 
 cell. 
 
 The minutes dragged into hours.
 
 122 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She peeled the potatoes and put on the 
 soup for Nazaire's dinner. 
 
 Then, back to the window again ; and to 
 her pacing, back and forth, back and 
 forth. 
 
 Sometimes, she would stoop to straight 
 en the corner of a strip of rag-carpet at 
 her feet. Sometimes, a vivid chromo on 
 the wall received a hurried, troubled 
 touch. 
 
 The fire sputtered and smoked. She 
 could not bring the water to boil. Would 
 the Cure never come ! 
 
 She piled more wood onto the smoking 
 fire and fetched a can of petroleum from 
 the closet under the attic stairs. She 
 poured the oily liquid on the green fire 
 wood As the stream fell into the stove, 
 she heard the little bell announcing the 
 approach of the Viaticum. 
 
 The Cure at last! 
 
 A great burst of fire belched up to the 
 raftered ceiling, licking her face and 
 singeing her hair.
 
 The Golden Poppy 123 
 
 The heat of the flames shut off her 
 breath. 
 
 She staggered to the open window and 
 fell face downward over the sill. 
 
 When she opened her eyes again, she 
 was lying on the bed, the Cure beside her, 
 bathing her face with oil. 
 
 Bradeau, the sacristan, his mouth 
 agape, stood by, holding in his hand the 
 little bell that told the habitants the Bon 
 Dieu was passing. 
 
 Soon, Nazaire lumbered in from the 
 fields. 
 
 "Seigneur !" he exclaimed, "our lot was 
 not bad enough without this." 
 
 "Hush, my son," spoke the Cure. "You 
 must not have such talk. The Bon Dieu 
 tries those he loves best." 
 
 "Then, he must love us best of all," 
 groaned Philomene. 
 
 "You are not badly burned," rejoined 
 the priest. "The oil will draw the fire 
 from the burn. In a few hours* time you 
 will be as well as ever. You will not 
 even require a doctor: another evidence,
 
 124 The Golden Poppy 
 
 mes enfants, that He watches over all. 
 Stay with your wife, Nazaire. I shall 
 stop on my way back from the Goyettes." 
 
 When he returned, an hour later, he 
 came into the house alone. 
 
 It was some time, before he departed, 
 albeit he was noted for the brevity of his 
 visits. 
 
 As he stepped stiffly into the carriage 
 and drove off, the lean, furrowed face was 
 set hard and grim. He would see Philippe 
 T-abelle!
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 
 
 The Cure decided to await the oppor 
 tunity of a chance meeting with Philippe. 
 
 He reasoned that in this manner his 
 position would be made to appear less 
 hostile; his interference more casual. 
 
 He was no mean diplomat. 
 
 And, though quite capable of swinging 
 the cudgel of his authority over his flock, 
 he was averse to so doing when a milder 
 course of action would accomplish his end. 
 
 One afternoon, a few days later, he 
 was reading his breviary in the parish 
 house garden, when Philippe came strut 
 ting by. Labelle was the first to speak, 
 which fell in with the plans of the Abbe. 
 
 "Bon jour, Monsieur le Cure," greeted 
 Philippe. 
 
 "Bon jour, Monsieur Labelle." 
 
 [125]
 
 126 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "It is fine weather we are having, n'est- 
 ce pas?" 
 
 "Yes. It will mean fine crops for the 
 habitants." 
 
 "Well," said Philippe, "if the others are 
 in the same fix as myself, they will need 
 the fine crops, to carry them over." 
 
 The Abbe's eyes went wide. 
 
 "I don't understand you," he rejoined. 
 "We have every evidence of the prosper 
 ity of the habitants that is, of those who 
 own farms. True, I cannot say as much 
 for the farm hands." 
 
 Already they were on the terrain of the 
 struggle. Philippe knew at once that the 
 shaft had been meant for him. But the 
 Cure gave him no time to parry. He 
 added quickly: 
 
 "I was called into the home of your 
 brother Nazaire, some days ago. The 
 wife had had an accident. I happened 
 along in time to lend assistance. I was 
 shocked at the poverty of the place. It is 
 a disgrace to the parish ; to me, the Cure, 
 and, above all, to one of its most well-to-do
 
 The Golden Poppy 127 
 
 parishioners, yourself, Monsieur Labelle. 
 I daresay your horses get more out of 
 life than do those wretched people, who 
 eat out of your hands. Ordinarily, I do 
 not meddle in such matters ; but, in a way, 
 you suggested the subject yourself." 
 
 Philippe turned a deep red. He had 
 been taken unawares. Attacked from am 
 bush, as it were. He was at a loss for 
 words. His thoughts clashed in panic. 
 He wished to be away, to end the encoun 
 ter. But, with good grace. It must be 
 done with good grace. He stammered : 
 
 "I never go to my brother's house. I 
 don't know how they conduct their me 
 nage. But, rest assured I shall look into 
 it. If they are in want, something must 
 be done, of course. I shall see. I shall 
 see. I thank you for speaking. 1 knew 
 nothing of it. Au revoir, Monsieur le 
 Cure. Au revoir." 
 
 Days passed. 
 
 In the home of Nazaire, conjecture was
 
 128 The Golden Poppy 
 
 rife. Far into the night the two conspira 
 tors would sit pondering the outcome of 
 their coup. What would the Cure say to 
 Philippe? And what defense would 
 Philippe have to make ? None, to be sure. 
 
 But, he would lie; for he could lie his 
 way into Heaven. 
 
 And the Cure might believe him. 
 
 But, then, no ; for Monsieur St. Georges 
 had seen how they were forced to live. 
 
 Ah, that was a brilliant bit of head 
 work bringing the Cure to the house, 
 where he could see for himself. How 
 many would have thought of it ? Not one 
 in ten thousand. 
 
 They would drift into speculation on 
 their future life, when the increased wage 
 would permit them to live as they should. 
 
 Nazaire would have a horse and car 
 riage. A sleigh, with fur robes and bells. 
 They could then go about, Sundays and 
 evenings, like other people. He had al 
 ways wanted these things. People who 
 lived in the campagne should have them. 
 Else, why live in the country?
 
 The Golden Poppy 129 
 
 Already Philomene had visited the 
 stores at Lamartinette and St. John's. 
 She had her eye on a piece of black silk, 
 which she had seen across the river. It 
 was priced rather high, she would tell Na- 
 zaire ; but, the more expensive goods were 
 always the cheapest in the end. 
 
 The dress would be trimmed with white 
 satin; and she could have special buttons 
 made with the cuttings from the silk. 
 
 She had not found a hat to suit her in 
 any of the stores. 
 
 It might be that she would have to go 
 to Montreal for the hat. 
 
 You see, when one had red hair, it was 
 not always an easy matter to pick out a 
 hat if one had taste. 
 
 Then, there was lingerie ; shoes ; gloves. 
 
 Oh, so many, many things ! 
 
 And the house. 
 
 Really, the right thing to do, would be 
 to sell off what they had and refurnish the 
 place throughout. 
 
 They could get the furniture at Juval's
 
 130 The Golden Poppy 
 
 for a small cash payment and so much 
 each month. 
 
 If anything happened, or there was 
 sickness in the family, they never 
 troubled one for the payments. 
 
 It was about time they were hearing 
 from Philippe. 
 
 The Cure must have seen him long 
 since. He was a man of action. He 
 would not put it off. 
 
 Perhaps Philippe was studying the 
 matter getting ready to make his prop 
 osition. 
 
 You see, it was not a question of a 
 slight raise; but an entirely different 
 arrangement. 
 
 That was it; a different arrangement. 
 
 The Cure would see to that. 
 
 He was not one to do things by halves. 
 
 Then, came the long looked for day, 
 when Philippe spoke. 
 
 Ernestine ran over to the barns, one
 
 The Golden Poppy 131 
 
 morning, and told Nazaire that Philippe 
 wished to see him in the house. 
 
 Nazaire brushed his clothes with his 
 hands, cleared his voice and followed the 
 girl. 
 
 Philippe had risen from breakfast and 
 was smoking his pipe in an arm-chair by 
 the window. 
 
 A newspaper lay carelessly across his 
 knee. 
 
 "Sit down, Nazaire," said Philippe. 
 
 And then, without preamble : 
 
 "How much am I paying you now?" 
 
 "Parbleu!" growled Nazaire, "don't 
 you know?" 
 
 "How much do you want?" 
 
 "Enough to live on ; to keep a horse and 
 rig; to dress my wife like other women; 
 to have something else on our table be 
 sides potatoes and salt pork and pea 
 soup." 
 
 As he spoke, his eyes swept over the 
 breakfast table, where lay the remains of 
 the morning meal. 
 
 "You are making a speech," retorted
 
 132 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Philippe. "I asked you a question how 
 much do you want?" 
 
 "Twenty dollars more on the month." 
 
 "Very well. You shall have it. It is 
 agreed." 
 
 Already Nazaire regretted not having 
 demanded more. It was so easily done. 
 Such a simple matter. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Presently 
 Philippe resumed: 
 
 "Now, I have been thinking matters 
 over; and I see where I have been run 
 ning things at a loss too loosely. So, I 
 will have to charge you, hereafter, for 
 whatever you take off the farm milk, 
 eggs, salt pork and the rest. Then, there 
 is the cottage you are living in. I can 
 get ten dollars a month rent for it. Bis- 
 sonnette, the man who is coming to take 
 Pierre's place, would like to have it. But, 
 as you are now occupying the house, you 
 may have it at that price. On the first 
 day of each month, hereafter, we will 
 settle our account. You will receive
 
 The Golden Poppy 133 
 
 whatever is due you, after I have deducted 
 what is coming to me." 
 
 Nazaire went white as he caught the 
 words rolling easily from the lips of his 
 brother. For it was quite apparent to 
 him that he had been tricked; that hence 
 forth he would be worse off than before. 
 
 When Philippe rose abruptly and left 
 the room, he remained in his seat, his 
 mouth agape, his bulging eyes staring 
 stupidly, unbelieving, at the vacant arm 
 chair by the window. 
 
 After a while, he rose up and lumbered 
 heavily out of the house.
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 
 
 Randon took his bride to an apartment 
 on Sherbrook Street at the end of a short 
 wedding tour through New England. 
 
 The place was furnished in good taste 
 and met with the instant approval of 
 Isabelle, who smilingly likened it to a 
 robin's nest. 
 
 Soon her dainty hands were at work, 
 putting deft feminine touches here and 
 there, adding or toning down a color, 
 changing the position of a bisque, or re- 
 hanging a picture to suit the play of the 
 light. 
 
 She promised herself golden hours 
 long chaplets of golden hours, within 
 these precincts of her young wedded life. 
 
 She was supremely happy. 
 
 David had served his term on the am 
 bulance. 
 
 [134]
 
 The Golden Poppy 135 
 
 He was now an interne at St. Malachi's, 
 where his duties required that he spend 
 the greater part of the time. 
 
 What leisure hours were his he whiled 
 away in the company of Isabelle. 
 
 Sometimes they would spend an evening 
 at the theatre, or at the home of friends. 
 
 For the young physician had not been 
 slow to cultivate friendships in the city. 
 
 He looked upon advantageous acquaint 
 ances as essential investments, connections 
 that would accrue in value and, in time, 
 reflect a prestige much to be desired in 
 his practice. 
 
 He spoke of this repeatedly to Isabelle, 
 who, in turn, lost no opportunity to foster 
 and cement those alliances which might 
 lead to an enviable foothold in her hus 
 band's profession. 
 
 On fine days they would stroll through 
 the parks and watch the children at play, 
 or the old people basking in the sun. 
 
 Once he took her to the mountain. 
 
 From its grizzled peak they scanned 
 the broad expanse.
 
 136 The Golden Poppy 
 
 The sky hung like a canopy of crystal. 
 
 They could see far away, where the 
 blue hills rose and kissed the bending 
 heavens. 
 
 "Over there," said David, "is Longueil. 
 And yonder, St. Lambert; and Cockna- 
 wagga, the Indian village. And that," 
 pointing farther out, "is Lachine; and 
 the Rapids. And here is Nun's Island, 
 nearer in." 
 
 They gazed at the St. Lawrence, 
 sweeping by at their feet, as it seemed, 
 and were awed by the grandeur of its 
 majesty. 
 
 The city sprawled in the lap of the 
 mountain. 
 
 They had coffee and sandwiches at a 
 little rest-house; and went home. 
 
 Isabelle was fatigued from the arduous 
 journey and announced, with a weary 
 smile, that she was glad to be back in her 
 robin's nest. 
 
 She changed her street dress for a 
 loose-fitting gown of soft texture and 
 slipped her feet into a pair of bronze slip-
 
 The Golden Poppy 137 
 
 pers, which had caught her eye in a shop 
 window on Notre Dame Street. 
 
 Antoinette, the little house-maid, re 
 cently engaged by Randon, served a light 
 collation; for they were too tired to do 
 justice to a meal. 
 
 They were still at the table, discussing 
 their afternoon on the mountain, when the 
 door-bell rang. 
 
 A moment later, Antoinette came in to 
 say that a Monsieur Demers was in the 
 reception room. 
 
 "Who is he?" enquired Isabelle, when 
 the maid had withdrawn. 
 
 "A friend. From Longueil." 
 
 "I can't meet him," she hastened to say. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "This way in neglige?" 
 
 "I don't see what difference that makes. 
 People in the city understand one doesn't 
 go tight-laced in one's own home." 
 
 "But, David, I'd rather not. It will 
 take but a few minutes to dress " 
 
 "That's the trouble," Randon rejoined
 
 138 The Golden Poppy 
 
 irritably. "You never will become ac 
 climated, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Just the same," flared Isabelle, flushing 
 deeply, "I have my own ideas of propriety, 
 and, what is more, they are not neces 
 sarily of the country. They are the ideas 
 of any well bred woman, anywhere." 
 
 She made to rise from the table but 
 relaxed again in her seat, as the footsteps 
 of the guest sounded in the library. 
 
 A moment later Rene Demers stood 
 balancing himself uncertainly in the door 
 way of the dining-room. 
 
 He was drunk. He grinned down at 
 the astonished pair. 
 
 "Ah, les nouveaux maries the honey- 
 mooners!" he exclaimed. "It is with 
 grand delight that I salute you!" 
 
 He bowed obsequiously to Isabelle and 
 fixed upon her a dazed, glassy grin. 
 
 Randon, perplexed, introduced the 
 visitor to his wife. Isabelle acknowledged 
 the formality coldly. Demers doubled 
 into a convenient chair. He was dressed 
 in evening clothes. Turning his face
 
 The Golden Poppy 139 
 
 slowly to Randon, he said, becoming of a 
 sudden, quite serious: 
 
 "David, old boy, I was going to dinner 
 at my little Fantine's. I receive special 
 invitation from her papa. I guess now 
 I don't go. Her papa might give me still 
 more pressing invitation to stay away. I 
 think I go for ride instead. Like to go 
 for ride? My car is outside." 
 
 Isabelle made an excuse and left the 
 room, to the evident annoyance of Randon, 
 who followed her with his eye until the 
 door swung behind her. When she re 
 turned, a few moments later, Demers had 
 gone. 
 
 Randon was in the front room, gazing 
 out into the lamp-lighted street, where a 
 drizzle of rain was now falling. 
 
 Isabelle stood, for a moment, by the 
 table, waiting for him to speak. She 
 cleared her voice to make sure that he 
 was aware of her presence. But he said 
 no word; nor moved an inch from his 
 position.
 
 140 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She went up to him and put her arm 
 about his waist. 
 
 He turned quickly, the pale sheen from 
 the arc-light on his face, now distorted in 
 anger. He opened his mouth to speak. 
 But closed his lips again in silence. Then 
 he broke away from the arm that held 
 him, and, crossing over to the guests' 
 bedroom, closed the door. 
 
 Isabelle went to bed. 
 
 Several times she was on the verge of 
 rising and going in to him. 
 
 But her pride welled up, forbidding her 
 the cheapening of herself. Far into the 
 night she waked, tossing on the bed, now 
 hoping he would relent and come to her, 
 now feverishly reasoning the injustice of 
 his treatment. 
 
 Cocks crowed from afar. A gray gleam 
 steeled the eastern sky. Milk-carts rat 
 tled noisily over the street. It would soon 
 be time to rise. 
 
 Had Antoinette mailed the letter to 
 Pierre ? 
 
 There were berries for breakfast
 
 The Golden Poppy 141 
 
 It was noon and a bright sun was 
 playing its rays on the tumbling gold of 
 her hair, when she awoke. 
 
 There were some letters from Lamar- 
 tinette on her dresser, put there by 
 Antoinette. 
 
 Doctor Randon had left early for St. 
 Malachi's. 
 
 It was his custom to pay her a hurried 
 visit each day while the staff was at 
 dinner in the hospital. 
 
 She knew the hour of his coming and 
 saw to it that a tempting "diner a deux" 
 was waiting upon his arrival. 
 
 Today the hours dragged by with 
 crushing monotony. 
 
 The hands of the little brass clock in 
 the library seemed glued to the dial. 
 
 She tried to read. But found no interest 
 in the story. The author must have been 
 a dull, conceited sort. She cast the book 
 aside. 
 
 Six o'clock, she told herself; he would 
 come at six. 
 
 She would greet him, in the doorway, as
 
 142 The Golden Poppy 
 
 he came in, putting her arms about his 
 neck. And he would take her face in both 
 his hands and kiss her. Then they would 
 sit down to dinner together for a happy 
 hour. And all would be forgotten. 
 
 At four o'clock she dismissed Antoi 
 nette for the remainder of the day and 
 finished, herself, the preparations for 
 dinner. 
 
 She baked a "pain de Savoie" and made 
 the frosting. There was a chicken en 
 casserole, nestling in green peas and 
 savory sauce. And a wonderful salad of 
 crisp, yellow lettuce and manzanillos and 
 slices of red, ripe tomatoes that looked 
 like little cart wheels. She laid a snow- 
 white cloth and set the dishes. 
 
 When all was in readiness, she went 
 out onto the porch to see if he was coming. 
 
 As she passed through the library she 
 glanced eagerly at the clock. Who would 
 have thought it was so late twenty 
 minutes after six! He was always here 
 before this. A chilling fear leaped in her 
 heart. What if he should not come
 
 The Golden Poppy 143 
 
 Seigneur! the suspense of the night 
 would be intolerable. 
 
 She gazed down the stately street, now 
 aquiver with the animation of homing 
 throngs and vehicles. 
 
 Men and women hurried by, their faces 
 alight with the joy of homecoming. 
 
 Eagerly she scanned them as they came 
 into view, approached, and passed beyond 
 again. 
 
 Somewhere in the distance a chime 
 told seven. Dusk was settling, now, over 
 the city. A dull copper flare lingered 
 where the sun had been. 
 
 With troubled heart she went in and 
 closed the door. 
 
 A thought came to her: maybe some 
 thing had happened to him. There was 
 the telephone. She would call him at the 
 hospital. 
 
 She was informed by a gruff voice in 
 the office that Doctor Randon could not 
 come to the telephone. He had been very 
 busy since early morning in the operating 
 room. Yes, he would give him the mes-
 
 144 The Golden Poppy 
 
 sage, but could not say how soon. There 
 had been a disastrous fire in the factory 
 district. A large number of workers had 
 been injured. 
 
 Isabelle placed the receiver on the hook. 
 
 "Then, it is not what I feared," she 
 said aloud, her face alight with gladness. 
 "Mon Dieu, I am so happy!" 
 
 She cleared the table ; and put away the 
 dinner, untouched. She was not hungry, 
 now. 
 
 Would the gruff voice in the office 
 deliver the message? Would it be late? 
 Surely they would not keep him in the 
 operating room much longer. 
 
 She turned on the reading lamp in the 
 library and picked up the discarded book 
 of the afternoon. She would read a while. 
 He would call her up, of course. 
 
 An hour passed. The novel was not so 
 bad after all. Indeed, it was interesting. 
 The hero was an audacious, dare-devil 
 sort ; while the heroine 
 
 There was a faint flutter of the tele-
 
 The Golden Poppy 145 
 
 phone bell, followed by a bold, startling 
 ring. 
 
 It was Randon. 
 
 He was in his best mood. He had been 
 kept busy since early morning. He was 
 very tired. He would now try to get a 
 little sleep. Yes, surely, he would be home 
 tomorrow for dinner. She must go to bed 
 and get a good rest. The mountain trip 
 had been too much for both of them, he 
 feared for their nerves, at least. 
 
 He laughed and she understood. 
 
 She turned again to her novel and stole 
 a glimpse at the closing chapter. It 
 pleased her, for she smiled approvingly. 
 
 She closed the book and went off hap 
 pily to bed.
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 
 
 On a number of occasions Isabella had 
 gently counseled what she termed a less 
 extravagant living programme. 
 
 She had pointed out to Randon that if 
 their present expenditures were not 
 sharply retrenched their resources would 
 have dwindled out long before he could 
 hope to gain sustenance from his pro 
 fession. 
 
 He heard her out each time without 
 comment ; but made no effort in the direc 
 tion suggested by his wife. 
 
 Tomorrow was another day ; and would 
 bring its own problems. Besides, this was 
 the method of life he had planned. 
 
 It would prove an avenue to early 
 recognition by a desirable clientele, to 
 rapid advancement in his chosen work. 
 
 [146]
 
 The Golden Poppy 147 
 
 The first indispensable requisite was to 
 make an impression. 
 
 The city was overrun by men of his 
 profession who would never be heard 
 from, because they had elected to sit and 
 wait for a practice. 
 
 The mouse must go to the mountain. 
 
 Furthermore, there was the matter of 
 his wife's dowery. The subject had never 
 been mentioned by him to Philippe La- 
 belle. 
 
 It was for the father of the bride to 
 speak first in such cases. 
 
 Randon was giving up all he possessed 
 for the home. Surely his father-in-law 
 should be willing to do an equal share. ' 
 
 When the time came, he would make 
 it plain to Labelle that he was nobody's 
 fool. But, there was no need for haste. 
 His own fairness would be all the more 
 evident and effective after a reasonable 
 lapse of time. And then, there was 
 always a possibility that the old fellow- 
 might take the initiative and accede,
 
 148 The Golden Poppy 
 
 without prodding, to the propriety of 
 things. 
 
 Too, there was his wife to consider. Not 
 for worlds would he have her think that 
 he had married for money. 
 
 As matters stood, he was by no means 
 penniless. But, money went fast. It 
 seemed that every time he moved some 
 bill was due. 
 
 But, that was it: he was paying the 
 price. He had entered into the bargain; 
 and understood the terms. He was aiming 
 high. It was fair enough. 
 
 Now, if he had rented a plain little 
 house at Point St. Charles and buried 
 himself among the mass what then? 
 
 A long, silent struggle, meagre in 
 reward, tardy in doubtful recognition. 
 
 No. Better by far the lot of the hab 
 itant whistling behind his plough. 
 
 For, he, at least, was happy in his 
 limitations, having no higher aim, know 
 ing no wider bourne.
 
 The Golden Poppy 149 
 
 Summer fled like a dream. 
 
 And all too soon the frowning skies of 
 Autumn lowered, cold and bleak, over the 
 city. There was a long, gray interlude of 
 soughing winds and falling leaves, rattling 
 into drifts in the gutters along the streets. 
 
 Then, swift and ruthless, Winter came. 
 
 One day, when Isabelle awoke, a heavy 
 snow was falling. She stepped to the 
 window. A thick pall of white lay over 
 the street. The trees were like carvings 
 of crystal. 
 
 A wonderful stillness lulled the air. A 
 feeling of loneliness stole over her. She 
 felt alone and unfriended. It was four 
 days since David had come. This would 
 make the fifth. His duties were demand 
 ing more and more of his time as the 
 months went by. She was nigh to tears. 
 But, she must be brave. 
 
 A bewildered sparrow, seeking food, 
 fluttered a moment before her at the 
 window; and was gone. 
 
 She dressed and called Antoinette. No, 
 there was no mail. It was probably late
 
 150 The Golden Poppy 
 
 because of the storm. Breakfast would 
 be ready shortly. The grocer had sent his 
 monthly bill with the day's order. It 
 seemed very high. She had told him as 
 much. But, he only laughed and said it 
 was quite correct. 
 
 It was close onto noon before the 
 carrier finally brought the mail. There 
 were some newspapers and periodicals; 
 and a letter from Pierre, the second she 
 had received from him since her marriage. 
 
 The missive came as a sunbeam slanting 
 in upon her through the storm. She 
 opened the envelope and, seating herself 
 by the window, began to read. 
 
 There were eight closely written sheets. 
 
 He had taken the habit of the Little 
 Brothers on the feast of the Assumption 
 and, though still a novice, had been given 
 a class of little fellows to teach. 
 
 He was very much taken up with the 
 work and felt quite at peace with the 
 world and himself. 
 
 Mamman Labelle came to see him
 
 The Golden Poppy 151 
 
 frequently; usually on Sundays, on her 
 way home from vespers. 
 
 Philippe he had not seen. Nor the 
 others. 
 
 He had fallen heir to some three hun 
 dred acres of farm land near St. Gregoire, 
 through the death of Louis Beaudoin, a 
 distant relative, who had no other kin. 
 
 There was also the sum of seven 
 thousand dollars, belonging to the estate, 
 which was on deposit in a bank at St 
 John's, awaiting his call. It would have 
 made a very nice start, had he remained 
 in the world. 
 
 But, it did not tempt him now. Some 
 how, it came as an unwelcome burden ; for 
 he could make no use of it; and it would 
 be a source of care and annoyance. 
 
 No doubt she was in love with the 
 city ; and supremely happy in her new sur 
 roundings. 
 
 She was not to forget him when she 
 came to Lamartinette. He might, per 
 haps, be granted a conge, so that he could 
 go home and spend a few hours with her.
 
 152 The Golden Poppy 
 
 However, the rules of the brotherhood 
 were strict and he was not sure that he 
 would be permitted to go. But, they 
 would see. 
 
 Mamman Labelle was looking poorly, of 
 late; and her kindly smile was a bit tired 
 and wistful, he thought. She had told 
 him, herself, that the loss of Isabelle had 
 left a great void in her life a void that 
 could never be filled. 
 
 He had endeavored to cheer her; and, 
 for a little while, she had seemed her old 
 self again. But, somehow, after she had 
 gone, he felt quite upset. For, it grieved 
 him inexpressibly to see her distress. He 
 loved her so! She was the only mother 
 he had ever known. And her life had 
 been such an unhappy one barren of love 
 and the little kindnesses that made of the 
 home a sacred precinct for the heart. 
 
 He had a little hunchback in his class 
 un petit bossu. And a one-legged boy 
 from the States. 
 
 Strange to say, these two were the
 
 The Golden Poppy 153 
 
 brightest of his class but, brimming over 
 with devilment. 
 
 He had thirty-two pupils: sixty-four 
 bright, mischievous eyes to watch and 
 guide and lead aright. 
 
 It was a beautiful, all-absorbing work, 
 this grafting of early knowledge onto the 
 ready, eager minds of the young. 
 
 It was like planting a precious seed and 
 caring for it, day by day, until it sprouted 
 and became a sturdy plant and, some day, 
 burst into bloom before the wondering 
 eyes of the gardener. 
 
 This was Thursday, the weekly holiday. 
 He had corrected the exercises for the 
 morrow and, being quite alone in the 
 study, had stolen an hour's communion 
 with his little playmate of the long ago 
 his golden poppy of the fields. 
 
 The letter concluded with wishes for 
 her happiness and a request to be remem 
 bered in her prayers. 
 
 Isabelle dropped the fluttering sheets in 
 her lap and gazed out the window at the 
 falling snow.
 
 154 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She sat there a long while, weaving day 
 dreams, that carried her back, ever so far, 
 it seemed, to days and to scenes now 
 clothed with a certain charm. 
 
 She was startled from her reverie by 
 the telephone bell. 
 
 Randon was speaking. He would be 
 home at six. 
 
 She glanced at the clock. 
 
 "Antoinette," she beamed, in the door 
 way of the kitchen, "dinner for two: 
 Milord is coming!" 
 
 Then, she went to the wardrobe and 
 chose his favorite dress. 
 
 Antoinette, at her work, caught the 
 refrain of an old French song. She stood 
 and listened for a moment, a smile flitting 
 over her pretty face. 
 
 "Ah," she mused aloud, "Madame is so 
 happy !"
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 
 
 After dinner Isabelle handed Pierre's 
 letter to David. He read it carefully and 
 laid it down without comment. He seemed 
 thoughtful throughout the evening; and 
 spoke but little. Isabelle laid his silence to 
 the reaction of overwork and left him 
 tactfully to his mood. They were about 
 to retire when he turned to her, suddenly, 
 and said : 
 
 "Pierre says your mother is poorly. It 
 may be he is not telling you all he knows. 
 Why not go home for a visit? It would 
 cheer her up and might lead to an im 
 provement in her condition." 
 
 Isabelle laid aside the book she was 
 reading. 
 
 "I had thought of doing so/' she said. 
 "It is very good of you to suggest it." 
 
 So, it was agreed that she would spend 
 
 [155]
 
 156 The Golden Poppy 
 
 a few weeks in Lamartinette. She would 
 leave the following Monday. Antoinette 
 would be left in charge of the menage 
 during her absence. 
 
 She would be very lonesome for him. 
 And so would he for her. But, it was 
 the proper thing to do under the circum 
 stances, he believed. 
 
 On Sunday, David was home the 
 greater part of the day. Isabelle went 
 about the preparations for her departure 
 with a noticeable lack of spirit. More 
 than once she expressed a wish that he 
 were going with her. He readily agreed 
 that if such an arrangement were possible 
 it would, indeed, be very pleasant. But, 
 of course, it was out of the question. 
 However, he might get away for a day. In 
 that event, he would surprise her. 
 
 The Tabors called in the evening. 
 
 Waldon Tabor was a tall, cadaverous 
 man of fifty years or thereabouts. 
 
 His wife was a plump little bit of 
 smiling affectation, some twenty years 
 younger than her husband.
 
 The Golden Poppy 157 
 
 They were an oddly mated pair. 
 
 Tabor was reputed to be wealthy. He 
 rarely discussed his affairs with friends or 
 acquaintances, among whom there pre 
 vailed a vague impression that he was in 
 some manner engaged in the business of 
 stocks. 
 
 They lived in an exclusive section of 
 the city and gave every evidence of 
 affluence. 
 
 The pair remained but a short while. 
 They were taking their first sleigh-ride of 
 the season and called en passant. Isabelle 
 must come out and spend the day upon 
 her return to the city. The doctor could 
 join them for dinner and they would 
 arrange a theatre party for the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Tabor smiled sweetly. 
 
 "Good bye, my dear," she cooed, "and 
 don't stay away too long !" 
 
 She kissed Isabelle and extended a little 
 gloved hand to Randon: 
 
 "And you, Doctor, you must come to 
 see us often while Mrs. Randon is away.
 
 158 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Make yourself one of us. Sans ceremonie, 
 you know." And, smiling up into her 
 husband's face: "Waldon talks so much 
 about you two young lovers!" 
 
 Tabor grinned without speaking, his 
 greenish eyes fixed upon Isabelle. When 
 they had gone, the Randons finished 
 packing the trunks. 
 
 The following day Isabelle took an 
 early train for Lamartinette. 
 
 David escorted her to the station. He 
 sent a large basket of fruit to Mrs. La- 
 belle and purchased a box of bonbons and 
 some magazines for his wife. He was 
 very pleasant; and sought to cheer Isa 
 belle, who was averse to the separation. 
 The brakeman stepped into the coach and 
 called out the various stops of the train. 
 The bell rang on the locomotive and they 
 became aware that they were moving. 
 David rose hastily and kissed his wife. He 
 felt her clinging to him in the first trem 
 bling embrace of parting. Then, he tore 
 himself away and rushed down the aisle 
 of the coach ; and was gone.
 
 The Golden Poppy 159 
 
 Philippe Labelle met his daughter at 
 the station. He came up to her slowly, his 
 hand outstretched. 
 
 She was shocked at the transformation 
 that had taken place in him within so 
 short a time. 
 
 His eyes were bloodshot. His puffed 
 face a purplish, apoplectic red. 
 
 "Bienvenu, ma fille," he said ; "welcome 
 home, my daughter." 
 
 The day was cold and clear and there 
 were many habitants in town. There 
 was an incessant silvery chorus of sleigh- 
 bells in the crisp air. The Richelieu was 
 now a snow-mantled field of ice. 
 
 Labelle enquired briefly about Randon 
 and volunteered the information that 
 things were about the same as when she 
 was last in Lamartinette. Her mother? 
 Oh, she seemed well enough. She read a 
 good deal and kept to herself, as had been 
 her custom for years. He had engaged a 
 new man, to take the place of Pierre. A 
 habitant from St. Gregoire. Nazaire was 
 growing slow and sluggish at his work.
 
 160 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Strangely enough, the foolish fellow felt 
 quite important of late. He had insisted 
 on a readjustment of their financial 
 understanding. Philippe had generously 
 consented and formulated a new agree 
 ment. Even that did not seem to satisfy 
 him. It was distressing, this striving, 
 without avail, to please your help. Indeed, 
 if it were not for the fact that Nazaire 
 was his own brother, he would not have 
 him about the place. 
 
 It was true that he was paying higher 
 wages to Bissonette, the new man, than 
 to Nazaire. But, he did a better day's 
 work. And, besides, farm hands were 
 demanding more money. They refused to 
 work at the old wage. 
 
 As they came in view of the house, 
 Isabelle saw her mother standing in the 
 window of her room, waving a welcome. 
 
 Her heart thrilled at the scenes of her 
 childhood. 
 
 She thought of Pierre; and a sense of 
 loneliness came over her. 
 
 She wished he were there to greet her.
 
 The Golden Poppy 161 
 
 Her father pointed out a fine bay 
 gelding, which he had added to the stock 
 that fall. She nodded without interest. 
 
 A moment later, the front door went 
 wide and she was in her mother's arms.
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 
 
 It was with effort that Isabella settled 
 down once more into the life of the home. 
 
 She strove hard to dispel the feeling of 
 loneliness that threatened at times, to 
 overcome her. 
 
 Mamman Labelle was not slow to note 
 her daughter's recurring mood. But, with 
 laudable tact, the elder woman refrained 
 from any comment on the subject; and 
 sought, at every opportunity, to make her 
 stay in Lamartinette a pleasant one. 
 
 Mamman had been feeling poorly, of 
 late, but was mending. 
 
 Isabelle had been home a fortnight 
 when she received a letter from Randon, 
 which revealed the true state of his 
 finances and suggested in plain words, 
 that she take steps to effect an advance on 
 her share of the estate. It would require 
 
 [162]
 
 The Golden Poppy 163 
 
 at least five thousand dollars to carry 
 them over the remaining period of his 
 inactivity in practice. He was writing to 
 her as a last resort. As a matter of fact, 
 her father had been remiss in his duty to 
 her in failing even to mention the subject 
 of his daughter's dowery at the time of 
 her marriage. He had realized for some 
 time that his funds were dwindling; and, 
 in an effort to stave off disaster, had but 
 hastened its accomplishment by following 
 Tabor's advice in buying wheat on a 
 rising market. An hour after he had 
 handed his last thousand to Tabor, who 
 had acted for him in the transaction, he 
 was penniless. Tabor lost fifty thousand 
 on the same day. He had admitted it 
 himself to David. 
 
 If she failed to secure the money, there 
 was but one alternative to close the 
 home until the end of his term at St. 
 Malachi's. 
 
 The letter concluded with assurances of 
 affection and a promise to visit her at 
 Lamartinette if possible.
 
 164 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Isabelle turned pale as she struggled 
 through the chilling revelation. 
 
 Mrs. Labelle entered the room as her 
 daughter was folding the little paper 
 sheets. 
 
 "How is he, my dear?" she asked. 
 
 Isabelle glanced up at her mother and 
 back again at the letter in her hand. Her 
 pride suffered deeply in this moment. 
 There was an interval of silence, of 
 painful hesitation. Then, she held out the 
 letter and replied: 
 
 "Here it is, Mumzie: read it for 
 yourself." 
 
 When she had finished reading, the 
 mother said : 
 
 "He is quite right, my dear. A settle 
 ment should have been made at the time 
 of your marriage. It may be that the 
 speculation was ill advised. No doubt it 
 was. But, as he says, plainly enough, it 
 was a question of sink or swim and he 
 chose to take a chance. Life is full of 
 just such problems, cherie. Say nothing 
 to your father. It might prove embar-
 
 The Golden Poppy 165 
 
 rassing. I shall have a talk with him 
 myself." 
 
 "Oh, if only it can be arranged !" spoke 
 Isabelle. I would never have asked it for 
 myself, but " 
 
 "I understand, my child," smiled the 
 mother. "Your husband is right. I shall 
 see what can be done." 
 
 Late in the afternoon, a student, re 
 turning home from college, brought a 
 note from Pierre. He had obtained per 
 mission to spend the following day, 
 Thursday, at home. 
 
 Isabelle was delighted. 
 
 Of a sudden, and as if by magic, the 
 clouds had been dispelled and there was 
 sunshine. 
 
 That night, in her room, she penned a 
 long letter to David, in which she told of 
 her mother's promised assistance. 
 
 Pierre came on the morrow. 
 
 He was clothed in the black habit of 
 the Little Brothers. 
 
 Over his shoulders hung a long, heavy 
 cape. He carried a brass crucifix on his
 
 1 66 The Golden Poppy 
 
 breast. His shoes were of course leather 
 and thick-soled. He wore a large, flat- 
 topped cap of imitation Persian lamb and 
 thick leather mittens lined with wool. A 
 black, rope-like cord, with tasseled ends, 
 was tied about his waist. A little two- 
 piece bib of white fabric gave contrast to 
 the black of the garb when he removed 
 his cape. 
 
 He had straightened perceptibly and 
 had thrown off much of his shyness. He 
 beamed upon Isabelle and Mamman and 
 was at once very much at home. 
 
 Philippe Labelle came in for dinner. 
 
 The farmer was in his best mood; and 
 asked many questions about the brothers 
 and the life they led. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, Nazaire 
 came into the kitchen for hot water. A 
 sick horse, he explained, needed a bran 
 mash. 
 
 "Pierre is home?" he asked of Er 
 nestine. 
 
 "Yes," replied the girl. "They're in the 
 parlor. Go right in."
 
 The Golden Poppy 167 
 
 He gazed down dubiously at his boots 
 and up again at Ernestine. But, she had 
 turned to her work and was humming an 
 air, oblivious of his presence. He removed 
 his cap and, holding it in both hands, 
 stalked heavily through the passage to the 
 open doorway of the room. Pierre rose 
 to greet him. Nazaire was visibly embar 
 rassed. He was very well oui. And 
 Philomene was very well oui. And 
 Pierre he was well? He would have 
 called at the college to see him, but didn't 
 know what the rules were in such things. 
 Well, he would be going. There was a 
 sick horse. Eh, bien, he would say good 
 day. He must be going. There was much 
 work to do. Au revoir. 
 
 He was greatly relieved to find himself 
 alone again in the barns. 
 
 It was late when Pierre took his leave. 
 Philippe drove Charlemagne to the college 
 gate, where the young man alighted. 
 Then he turned into the street that led 
 to the widow Duclos'.
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEN. 
 
 The following day, Philippe had eaten 
 breakfast and was about to rise from the 
 table, when his wife entered the room and 
 closed the door. It was an unusual thing 
 for her to do and it did not escape the 
 man's notice. He looked up at his wife 
 with a puzzled frown. She drew a chair 
 opposite him at the table and sat down. 
 
 "I want to speak to you," she said, 
 "about money; about some sort of finan 
 cial arrangement with Isabelle. Her 
 husband is at the end of his resources and 
 has another year to go before engaging 
 in practice. Unless we do our part, the 
 young people will be obliged to close their 
 home for the present." 
 
 "Well!" gasped Philippe. "This is news 
 to me. I was led to think, all along, the 
 
 [168]
 
 The Golden Poppy 169 
 
 fellow had means of his own. You made 
 no mention to me of his being a pauper." 
 
 "You knew as much as I did about the 
 young man's financial condition/' rejoined 
 Mrs. Labelle. "Furthermore, he went to 
 you and asked for our daughter. That 
 was the time to inform yourself on any 
 matter that was not clear to you. As it 
 is, he has furnished a home at his own 
 expense and used the remainder of his 
 funds in an effort to prepare the way for 
 a successful career. He has run short. 
 And as nothing in the way of a settlement 
 was suggested by you at the time of Isa- 
 belle's marriage, I am afraid it was she, 
 and not the young Randon, who appeared 
 the pauper." 
 
 "And what does he expect me to do?" 
 
 "It will take five thousand dollars to 
 see him established in practice. That is 
 no more than Isabelle should have received 
 on her wedding day." 
 
 "Fool !" roared Labelle, rising up from 
 his seat, his face ablaze with fury. "You 
 would conspire with that damned parvenu
 
 170 The Golden Poppy 
 
 to rob me ? Am I a dotard, that you dare 
 to talk like this to me? He wants five 
 thousand dollars, does he ? Then, let him 
 earn it, as I do. He would wear a silk 
 hat in the city, while I should be content 
 to scrape manure off my boots. A con 
 venient arrangement for him. Tell Isa- 
 belle for me that if he cannot support her 
 she may come home to live. That is my 
 answer to him and to you." 
 
 He said no more; but picked up his 
 cap and slammed the door behind him. 
 
 Through the window she watched him 
 from her seat by the table, strutting across 
 the space between the house and the barns. 
 
 When he had disappeared behind the 
 straw-stack in the barn-yard, she rose 
 with decision. 
 
 Isabelle had not yet come down. No 
 doubt she was still asleep. She would not 
 call her. There was work ahead. She 
 wished to go about it alone. She could 
 take her choice of two courses: convey 
 Philippe's reply to her daughter, or go to 
 the college and lay the matter before
 
 The Golden Poppy 171 
 
 Pierre, with a view to securing the money 
 from him. 
 
 She would see Pierre. 
 
 She dispatched Ernestine to the stable. 
 Bissonette was to harness Charlemagne 
 at once. 
 
 Then she went to her room. She was 
 dressed when the man drove up in front 
 of the house. 
 
 "You understand, Pierre," she said, 
 when she had gone over in detail the sub 
 ject of her visit, "I would be personally 
 responsible to you for the money." 
 
 Pierre raised a deprecating hand: 
 
 "I am indebted to you for more than 
 that, Mamman. You are welcome to it, I 
 assure you. Only, say not a word about it 
 to Isabelle. Let her believe it came from 
 her father. I shall go to the bank during 
 the noon recess. You may have the money 
 any time this afternoon. Or, better still, 
 can you meet me at the bank at twelve?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Good. Then it is settled twelve
 
 172 The Golden Poppy 
 
 o'clock, at the St. John's bank. Until then, 
 Mamman, au revoir !" 
 
 She tried to speak; to express her 
 gratitude. 
 
 But, he would not hear her. 
 
 "My class, Mamman," he smiled. "They 
 are waiting for me." 
 
 In a trice he was gone; and she was 
 standing by the little table in the center 
 of the room, staring at the open doorway 
 through which he had passed. 
 
 It was two o'clock in the afternoon 
 when she reached home with the money. 
 
 "Then, he did give it to you!" said 
 Isabelle. 
 
 "Yes, my dear," replied the woman, 
 guiltily repressive of the truth. 
 
 "But, cherie," she added, a moment 
 later, "make no mention of this not even 
 to him, your father." 
 
 "Oh, no, not a word, I promise you 
 although it woud be nice if I could thank 
 him." 
 
 Mamman raised a finger to her lips : 
 
 "Not one word !" she enjoined.
 
 The Golden Poppy 173 
 
 "Not one word, Mumzie dear," echoed 
 Isabelle. 
 
 She crossed the room to where her 
 mother was standing and put her arms 
 tenderly about her. She kissed the fur 
 rowed brow and said : 
 
 "You are so good, so kind! I cannot 
 find words to thank you." 
 
 Then she mounted the stairs to her 
 room and wrote the good news to David.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY. 
 
 And now life took on a rosier hue to 
 Randon. He saw his way cleared of obsta 
 cles ; his mode of living freed of enslaving 
 restraint. 
 
 Upon receipt of his wife's letter con 
 taining the money, he wrote her that it 
 would not be possible for him to leave his 
 work at St. Malachi's and suggested that 
 she might conclude her visit at an early 
 date. 
 
 He expressed his gratification with the 
 fruitfulness of her efforts and assured her 
 he would be pleased to have her home 
 again. 
 
 Isabelle sought in vain for some ex 
 pression of warmth, some hidden spring 
 of affection in the wording of the formal 
 note. 
 
 The tone of condescending superiority 
 [174]
 
 The Golden Poppy 175 
 
 which it seemed to breathe hurt her love 
 for him more than it offended her pride. 
 
 She waited until she was alone in the 
 drawing-room, where a maple log burned 
 red in the fire-place. 
 
 Then she drew the letter from her 
 breast and dropped it regretfully in the 
 leaping flames. 
 
 She watched the white leaves flare and 
 blacken and curl into char. 
 
 What secret they held must be dead to 
 all, even to her mother. She would suffer 
 none to know that he would write in such 
 a tone to her. 
 
 A moment later, she had decided to 
 return to Montreal the following day. 
 
 On her way to the village station, she 
 stopped at the college to make her adieux 
 to Pierre. She confided to him, in her 
 naive way, that her father had been very 
 good and generous and had advanced her 
 five thousand dollars of her share in the 
 estate. Few fathers would have done as 
 much, she added knowingly.
 
 176 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Pierre smiled and agreed, as did Mam- 
 man Labelle, who had come with her. 
 
 Arriving in the city, she at once called 
 David on the telephone. She was de 
 lighted to find her husband in a happy 
 mood. He would be home at six. 
 
 Antoinette had proved herself a perfect 
 housekeeper. The rooms were warm and 
 cheery. The little maid beamed an honest 
 welcome. The clock in the library, true 
 to its trust, swung its pendulum back and 
 forth, back and forth, without ever a 
 thought or care. A glad shout went up 
 from children at play in the street. A 
 folk song, "1* Amour et la Vie," reclined 
 indolently against the piano, where she 
 had left it. "Love and Life !" Words so 
 few have understood. Black worlds of 
 mystery. Silver mornings of promise. 
 Elusive and fleeting, as the sands of a 
 mirage waste. 
 
 David came in the evening. He greeted 
 his wife affectionately and, throughout the 
 dinner, manifested a polite interest in her 
 laughing, garrulous account of the
 
 The Golden Poppy 177 
 
 voyage. He expressed himself as pleased 
 with his good fortune in having obtained 
 conge for the morrow, which was Sunday. 
 
 They would spend the day together, at 
 home. 
 
 During the evening, she played and 
 sang an old ballad of which he was fond. 
 As the sweet voice trailed away in the 
 last, lingering note of the air, he bent 
 down, and, putting his arms about her, 
 kissed her fervently upon the lips. 
 
 She thrilled under the magic of his 
 touch and pressed him to her in a long 
 embrace. 
 
 He had never done this before. He had 
 appeared to her to be hampered by a nat 
 ural reserve, which it was beyond his 
 power to break down or control. 
 
 Was this, then, the awakening of the 
 love she had craved? The intonation of 
 their bridal hymn? The meeting of their 
 souls in the garden of scarlet bloom? 
 
 Was it the glad, wild hour, of which 
 she had dreamed, when he would come to 
 her and lay claim to her gifts, not because
 
 178 The Golden Poppy 
 
 she was his, but for the nobler reason that 
 his love for her was a great white flame, 
 that could never grow cold and die? 
 
 Through the long, still night, she slept 
 in his arms, peaceful and dreamless, like 
 some happy child that has roamed the 
 fields and come home to rest at eventide. 
 
 They rose late and, after breakfast, 
 went for a stroll in the park. 
 
 The day was beautiful. 
 
 A yellow glimmer of sun played grate 
 fully upon the crusted snow, which was 
 thawing on the edge of the walks and 
 dropping liquid pearls into the gullies. 
 
 Children were at play on the hillsides. 
 
 Sparrows chattered in little groups 
 among the stark branches of the trees, 
 elated with the kindly warmth of the sun. 
 
 David was in high spirits. He smoked 
 numerous cigars and spoke incessantly of 
 his career. He would be famous. He 
 would attain the pinnacle. There would
 
 The Golden Poppy 179 
 
 be no half-way point in his ascent to fame. 
 What had been done by others, he could 
 do. Nothing was impossible to one who 
 possessed the ability and the will to do. 
 The world would hear from him. Just a 
 few years, and then 
 
 "And then, greatness," spoke Isabelle. 
 
 And, after a moment's silence, wist 
 fully: 
 
 "Let us hope, David, dear, that when 
 greatness comes to you love will not flit 
 away." 
 
 "Love?" he rejoined, abstractedly. 
 
 "Yes, love, my dear. What is life 
 without it? Is it not the source of every 
 thing worth while in life?" 
 
 "Why, yes, of course," he agreed 
 vacantly. 
 
 They had walked for some time when 
 he added, sagely, taking a cigar from the 
 case: 
 
 "Love, as I view it, is a mutual attrac 
 tion between the sexes, which is an 
 essential incentive for the propagation of 
 the species."
 
 180 The Golden Poppy 
 
 He cleared his throat and lighted the 
 cigar. 
 
 Isabelle glanced up into her husband's 
 face, her eyes great with wonder. 
 
 But, she said no more, though her 
 thoughts whirled and clashed and her 
 heart pounded madly. 
 
 They spoke but little on the way home. 
 The Tabors came in the afternoon. De- 
 mers called while they were there. During 
 a lull in the conversation, Tabor turned to 
 the subject of stocks. He rubbed his long, 
 bony hands and leered at Randon, as he 
 said in a low, unctuous voice : 
 
 "Well, Doctor, I turned the trick, Fri 
 day, to the tune of sixty-seven thousand." 
 
 He looked slowly from one to another 
 of the party, and back again at Randon. 
 His greenish eyes fixed steadily upon the 
 young man, he rippled into a low, deep 
 chuckle. 
 
 "Sixty-seven thousand!" he repeated. 
 "That's how we win, my boy : by sticking 
 to it. You see, I now stand seventeen 
 thousand ahead of the fifty I lost with
 
 The Golden Poppy 181 
 
 you. Never give up the ship, lads. Never 
 say die!" 
 
 "Waldon is a perfect wonder," broke 
 in Mrs. Tabor. 
 
 He raised a hand to stop her, grinning 
 bashfully. But, she would not have it so. 
 
 "Waldon, dear," she persisted, "you 
 know you are. You're a wizard at finance. 
 They're all afraid of you, on the street." 
 
 "Now, what would you do with such a 
 woman?" he asked, turning to Demers. 
 "She insists that I am a great man and 
 me striving to remain unknown !" 
 
 He considered this a very good joke; 
 for he laughed long and loudly, clapping 
 his hands on his knees. 
 
 "I think," said Demers, "a wife should 
 talk like that about her husband, whether 
 it is the truth or just a little stretch of 
 er the imagination. It is very nice to 
 have the admiration of your wife very 
 nice." 
 
 "You must be sure to pay us a visit, 
 dearie," said Mrs. Tabor, when they were
 
 1 82 The Golden Poppy 
 
 leaving. "Now that you are home again, 
 we shall take no excuse." 
 
 "Yes," approved Tabor, "you really 
 must come over, some fine day." 
 
 Demers left shortly after and David 
 returned to St. Malachi's early in the 
 evening. 
 
 Alone with her thoughts, Isabelle went 
 over the incidents of the day. One by one 
 she marshalled them before her. The 
 Tabors she did not like. She heartily 
 wished they would tire of her indifference 
 and discontinue their visits. 
 
 Rene Demers was a pleasing young 
 fellow with good qualities. She liked him 
 for his naturalness and aplomb. He was 
 very human. 
 
 But, David and as she reverted to him 
 for the hundredth time that day, she could 
 see him, a cigar in one hand, in the other 
 a match, coolly delivering his dictum on 
 love. 
 
 She had been inexpressibly shocked by 
 his words. How could one hold such an 
 opinion and soar above the base realities ?
 
 The Golden Poppy 183 
 
 She could not bring herself to speak to 
 him further on the subject. It was re 
 volting to her. He had dragged her ideals 
 into the mire before her eyes. 
 
 To follow his view, love was not love 
 at all ; but a mere trick of nature, designed 
 to bring the sexes together to the end that 
 others, imbued with the same instincts, 
 should come into being; and so on ad 
 infinitum. No, no, a thousand times! 
 There was a higher aim than that in the 
 scheme of things. 
 
 She thought of Pierre, walled away in 
 his grim retreat. 
 
 Would he, too, have spoken thus of 
 love? 
 
 Would he, the playmate of the meadows, 
 have trampled under foot this exquisite 
 flower ? 
 
 Perhaps she was wrong. But, if so, then 
 the truth was a scathe and a blight; and 
 she had no desire to tread its pathways. 
 
 Weary of heart, she sought the solace 
 of sleep.
 
 184 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She awoke with a violent headache. 
 Daylight was streaming in about her. 
 
 She sat up on the edge of the bed and 
 became conscious of a dull throbbing in 
 the pit of her stomach. A feeling of 
 nausea mounted to her throat. The ob 
 jects in the room swam before her eyes. 
 Her flesh crept with chill. Summoning 
 her strength, she called Antoinette, who 
 hurried in from the kitchen. 
 
 Her mistress had fallen backwards 
 across the bed, in a swoon. 
 
 There was a little green bottle of aro 
 matic salts in the medicine cabinet. With 
 this and a cold towel, the maid revived 
 Isabelle. 
 
 She filled hot water bottles and wrapped 
 the patient in woolen blankets. 
 
 "Shall I call Doctor Randon?" she 
 ventured dutifully. 
 
 "Yes, if you will, Antoinette." 
 
 She had been absent from the room but 
 a few minutes when she returned. She 
 appeared crestfallen. 
 
 "Monsieur le Docteur cannot come/'
 
 The Golden Poppy 185 
 
 she announced. "He says he is very busy. 
 He told me to call Doctor Marsh, across 
 the street. He says maybe he can come 
 tomorrow, Madame." 
 
 Marsh was a practitioner of the old 
 school. He came in without bluster and 
 was at once at home, in a quiet, unpre 
 tentious way. He stayed but a short time. 
 
 "A touch of la grippe," he announced 
 when he had completed the examination. 
 
 "Keep warm and don't leave your bed. 
 We will have you as well as ever within 
 a few days." 
 
 He wrote a prescription, which he 
 handed to Antoinette, nodded his gray 
 head pleasantly at the sick woman and 
 took his leave. 
 
 Two days of crushing loneliness 
 dragged slowly by. 
 
 Isabelle had not heard from David. 
 
 On the morning of the third day he 
 came. 
 
 She thrilled at the sound of his foot 
 steps. 
 
 It had been impossible for him to leave
 
 1 86 The Golden Poppy 
 
 the hospital. He had not even had the 
 time to telephone. There had been an 
 unusual number of operations and the 
 medical wards were turning away fever 
 cases. 
 
 He was visibly nervous and spoke in a 
 tone of aloofness. 
 
 He took her pulse and temperature and 
 asked her why she had not engaged a 
 nurse. 
 
 For answer, Isabelle smiled and said 
 she would be well within a day or two and 
 that she preferred not to have officious 
 women in blue gingham fussing around 
 her and telling her what to do. 
 
 He glanced at his watch. He must be 
 getting back. St. Julien was to do a 
 trephining at noon. The patient had been 
 at the hospital for some time, gathering 
 strength for the operation. The theory 
 was that the man carried a flattened bullet 
 in the brain. An X-ray photograph had 
 told them as much. He had been shot 
 accidentally some three or four years ago. 
 The man was growing quite simple and
 
 The Golden Poppy 187 
 
 child-like of late and complained of in 
 creasing pains in his head. Yes, he must 
 be going. But, he would come again soon. 
 He bent down and touched his lips to hers. 
 A cold, unloving kiss. She must take care 
 of herself and remain in bed, as Marsh 
 had said. As Antoinette came in, bearing 
 a tray, he left the room. 
 
 A moment later the front door opened 
 and went shut behind him. 
 
 Isabelle heard the sound of the closing 
 door. It fell upon her like the grating of 
 the lid on the tomb of her dreams. 
 
 A great, surging grief rose up within 
 her. 
 
 She buried her face in the pillows and 
 gave herself up to tears. 
 
 And this was what she had done with 
 her life! 
 
 She had pawned herself to a man who 
 thought more of his career than of her. 
 
 He had shown himself indifferent to 
 her suffering, insensible of the finer dic 
 tates. 
 
 She yearned for the consoling embrace
 
 i88 The Golden Poppy 
 
 of her mother, the withered little woman 
 in Lamartinette from whom she had never 
 known aught but love and kindness. 
 
 Even Philippe, her father, would change 
 expression at the sight of another's pain. 
 
 And Pierre, noble Pierre ! Had she not 
 seen tears in his great, dark eyes, as he 
 bore tenderly in his arms a wounded 
 lamb? 
 
 What was there in the heart of a man 
 that caused him to wed a woman whom 
 he loved no more than David loved her ? 
 
 She would bestow kindness on a dog. 
 
 Certainly there were women he would 
 love more than this. 
 
 She rose and crossed the room to the 
 dresser. 
 
 She gazed at her reflection in the glass. 
 
 Her hair tumbled in a golden mass 
 about her shoulders. 
 
 Her face was white and the eyes weary 
 and swollen. 
 
 A cruel thought broke in upon her. 
 
 Could it be that he had turned away 
 from her because he had found her thus
 
 The Golden Poppy 189 
 
 disheveled and oh, no, she must not 
 think of such things. It would kill her 
 with grief to know that he was of such 
 shallow depths. 
 
 The headache had left her. She felt 
 weak and her head seemed to have lost 
 weight. 
 
 But, she would not go back to bed. It 
 was too lonely there. 
 
 She would dress and sit by the window 
 and watch the children at play in the 
 street and the people hurrying by. 
 
 Perhaps she would feel better. 
 
 And if he came tonight, she would sing 
 and play his favorite song, "Venez Avec 
 Moi Feter le Printemps." 
 
 A gold and purple sunbeam slanted 
 across the room. It gladdened her 
 strangely with hope. 
 
 She looped up her wealth of hair, that 
 shimmered like fire against the ivory 
 paleness of her skin. 
 
 From her wardrobe she chose a loose- 
 fitting gown of cerise, which she tied about 
 the waist with a tasseled cordon of gold.
 
 190 The Golden Poppy 
 
 At her full, white throat she pinned a 
 flying dove, jeweled with jade. 
 
 When she had done, she looked in the 
 glass and smiled. 
 
 "He would like me now," she told her 
 self. 
 
 Slowly the hours droned by. She could 
 not eat; nor read; nor rest. Some great 
 calamity hung, like a cloud, over her 
 head. She was fraught with a sense of 
 impending disaster. And always it was 
 he, David, who stalked before her, the 
 bearer of evil. 
 
 She gazed at the rushing throngs in the 
 street. Whither were they going? What 
 was their quest? Where the goal? Why 
 this grim struggle of the city, this panic 
 of souls, and stampeding, for a little to eat 
 and something to wear? Why all this 
 fretting and feverish haste, when the road 
 was so short and the end so near ? 
 
 She thought again of David. His am 
 bition that was it, ambition to become a 
 great man had already wedged its way 
 between them. It was true. There could
 
 The Golden Poppy 191 
 
 be no mistaking it. He was drifting away 
 on a glacier, leaving behind the shores of 
 happiness. 
 
 And yet, she mused, the world's great 
 est men had loved. 
 
 A thought came to her, unbidden : They 
 were the truly great. 
 
 For no man could be great without love. 
 
 But, she quickly shut out the sugges 
 tion, being too proud to subject him to 
 the lens of comparison. 
 
 She crossed over to the piano and 
 played until the shadows had deepened in 
 the street. And when it was late and she 
 had given up hope of his coming, she stole 
 away to bed, like a weary child.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 At the close of his term at St. Malachi's, 
 Randon set about to engage in active 
 practice. 
 
 His work in the hospital had attracted 
 favorable comment from the visiting phy 
 sicians and surgeons. 
 
 It was with no slight degree of con 
 fidence and determination that he closed 
 the doors of the grim, gray structure 
 behind him and turned his face to the city. 
 
 A tour of the supply houses and office 
 buildings convinced him that, in order to 
 open an office on the scale which he con 
 templated, he would require a substantial 
 increase in his now depleted funds. 
 
 He thought upon the matter for some 
 time without evolving a plan of action. 
 
 Calmly he surveyed the field of his 
 potential resources. 
 
 [192]
 
 The Golden Poppy 193 
 
 And in the end he was forced to the 
 humiliating admission that they were all 
 barely possible, no more all but Isabelle. 
 
 Besides, he was aware that any refusal 
 which might filter out into gossip would 
 militate against his chances of success. 
 
 On a number of occasions he was about 
 to broach the subject to her. 
 
 But each time his courage failed him 
 at the crucial moment and he remained 
 silent or spoke of something else. 
 
 And in the end it was Isabelle herself 
 who inadvertently opened the way to the 
 revelation of their status. 
 
 As they lingered over their after-dinner 
 coffee, one evening, she said, quite 
 thoughtlessly : 
 
 "When are you thinking of opening an 
 office, my dear ?" 
 
 He replied readily : 
 
 "When and where are entirely depend 
 ent on the question of funds." 
 
 She lowered her cup slowly to the saucer 
 and gazed at him in mute astonishment. 
 
 Unabashed, he went on:
 
 194 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Surely you have learned, by this time, 
 that it takes money to live in the city this 
 way. I have but a few hundred dollars 
 in the bank. It will require five thousand 
 to equip an office and get me going in 
 practice. 
 
 Having said this, he felt greatly re 
 lieved. There was a decanter of brandy 
 on the buffet. He rose and poured him 
 self a drink of the liquor. Then, he lighted 
 a cigar and picked up the evening paper. 
 Isabelle followed him with wondering 
 eyes. Surely he could not mean 
 
 "You see," he broke in upon her 
 thoughts, "I am peculiarly circum 
 stanced." 
 
 He laid the paper aside and went on: 
 "I have staked everything on my ca 
 reer. It has taken every dollar of my own 
 and five thousand of your money to put 
 me where I am. It will take another five 
 thousand to make me known. I have 
 thought it all out. There is no other 
 way."
 
 The Golden Poppy 195 
 
 "How are we going to get it, my dear?" 
 asked Isabelle. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied. "I know 
 none of whom I could ask it with any as 
 surance of success." 
 
 After a while he added, rather lamely: 
 
 "We will have to think to plan some 
 way out. For, it would be useless to go 
 on without money." 
 
 She made no reply ; which signified that 
 she was thinking. He was well pleased 
 with the effect of his words. A few mo 
 ments later, he said something about a 
 business appointment and went out. 
 
 It was characteristic of Isabelle to de 
 cide, without quibble, that he should have 
 the money. 
 
 But, she realized that she was con 
 fronted by a task of no mean proportions. 
 It would never do to approach her father 
 again; especially within so short a time. 
 Her mother might suggest a way. Or, 
 something else might happen in the course 
 of her quest for it was already settled in 
 her mind that she would do her utmost to
 
 196 The Golden Poppy 
 
 secure the needed funds. She arrived at 
 no more definite conclusion at that time. 
 It would require much thought and cau 
 tion. For, one false step might bring 
 disaster. Secrecy was paramount. It 
 must not be permitted to leak out that 
 David was short of funds. Only the one 
 appealed to must know. Not once did she 
 question his judgment, his stewardship of 
 her money. What disposition he had made 
 of it was right must be right. She 
 would leave no stone unturned in her ef 
 forts to aid him. It was plainly her duty 
 to do so. She would see her mother and 
 make a clean breast of it. Here was a 
 friend she could trust. 
 
 And, perhaps Pierre! Pierre had 
 seven thousand dollars. He had told her 
 so in one of his letters. But, how was she 
 to know she would ever be able to repay 
 it ? Supposing he left the order, he would 
 need it; and at once. And, besides, how 
 could she ever bring herself to ask him for 
 it? Her mother, that was different. But, 
 Pierre
 
 The Golden Poppy 197 
 
 She reverted, in the end, to her mother. 
 
 Yes, she would see Mamman and talk 
 with her. Mamman would know. When 
 all else failed, she could always go to her. 
 The wonder of motherhood ! 
 
 After much deliberation, she decided to 
 go home. 
 
 She felt strangely exhilarated as she 
 rode through the crowded thoroughfares 
 on her way to the station, a few days later. 
 
 Somehow, the city with its deafening 
 voices, its congested lungs, its hectic, 
 turbid flow of life, had come to fall upon 
 her as a dream that had run its course 
 and turned to troubled sleep. 
 
 She reached Lamartinette at nightfall; 
 and rode with Bissonette to the home 
 stead. He was a silent man, who confined 
 his words to the weather and the crops. 
 He chewed and spat with the gravity of a 
 Huron.
 
 198 The Golden Poppy 
 
 As the gray outline of her father's 
 house loomed in the moonlight, a chorus 
 of welcome rose to greet her, from the 
 brook beyond the cornfield, in which she 
 and Pierre had been wont to wade as chil 
 dren. The leafless branches of the trees 
 reached into the silvered dimness of the 
 night like unlighted candelabra in nature's 
 vast cathedral. Mounds of dead leaves 
 lay along the way, like the graves of the 
 golden summer days that were gone. Ce 
 dars tapered grimly into the darkness, 
 mute symbols of dawnless night. 
 
 A door opened, pouring a warm, yellow 
 light over the yard; then closed again. 
 
 And now she heard a well known voice 
 and felt her mother's arms about her in a 
 long, throbbing embrace. Isabelle strove 
 to speak. But, her lips trembled on the 
 words and she felt very close to tears. 
 
 The door went open again. Ernestine 
 stood in the framework, peering out into 
 the darkness. 
 
 "Bon soir, Madame Isabelle," she sang 
 out, her voice warm with welcome.
 
 The Golden Poppy 199 
 
 A wonderful gladness welled in the 
 heart of the returning child. She linked 
 her mother's arm in her own and hastened 
 her steps towards the abode that was 
 home. 

 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. 
 
 Several days elapsed before Isabelle 
 could bring herself to reveal the object 
 of her visit. 
 
 Mamman Labelle listened to her daugh 
 ter in sympathetic silence. But, she was 
 plainly perplexed. 
 
 She knew it would be futile to approach 
 Philippe a second time. And she shrank 
 from the thought of stripping Pierre. 
 
 There were no others to whom she 
 might appeal. 
 
 And while she was not given to cen 
 sure, she could not dispel the conviction 
 that there had been a great lack of judg 
 ment and no slight degree of extrava 
 gance in Randon's management. 
 
 However, she said naught of this to 
 Isabelle, being mindful of her daughter's 
 happiness above all else. 
 
 [200]
 
 The Golden Poppy 201 
 
 The young woman was not slow to note 
 the other's mood. 
 
 "It's a lot of money, Mumzie dear, 
 isn't it?" she said. 
 
 "Indeed it is, cherie," smiled the 
 mother. "I will have to think. Just now, 
 I don't see what can be done. But, we 
 must not despair. Let me have a little 
 time. We shall see." 
 
 Philippe now spent the greater part of 
 the time in the village. 
 
 There were even nights he did not come 
 home, sleeping at the widow Duclos', in 
 stead. 
 
 One night, a few days later, Philippe 
 blustered in from the barns, looking for 
 Bissonette. 
 
 The man was seated at the kitchen table, 
 mending a trace. 
 
 "Tomorrow morning," said Labelle, 
 "the stock buyers will be here. They have 
 bought up all the feeders cattle, sheep 
 and hogs. Make sure that none of our 
 regular stock get mixed up with the 
 others. Nazaire will bring the feeders up
 
 2O2 The Golden Poppy 
 
 from the fields. You see that the gates of 
 the barnyard are closed and don't let them 
 in." 
 
 Bissonette nodded without looking up. 
 
 "Oui, Monsieur," he replied, turning 
 the trace. 
 
 The stevedores came at noon the fol 
 lowing day. 
 
 Within an hour the sale was completed 
 and a long, mooing, bleating caravan 
 climbed the ascent in the road, in the first 
 stage of their journey to death. Shortly 
 afterwards, Philippe drove off to the vil 
 lage. 
 
 About midnight, Mamman Labelle, 
 who was waking, heard the rig turn off 
 the road and cross the wooden culvert 
 that bridged the ditch. 
 
 A moment later, Labelle rolled heavily 
 out of the carriage, striving desperately to 
 steady himself against the front wheel. 
 
 Horse and carriage went on alone to 
 the barns. 
 
 Philippe staggered across the interven 
 ing space of yard and lurched against the
 
 The Golden Poppy 203 
 
 kitchen door, which opened with a loud 
 bang and, after a long while, closed again. 
 
 Mamman listened for the sound of his 
 steps on the stairway. 
 
 But the house remained rapt in dead 
 silence. She grew troubled. Perhaps 
 something had happened. She had no 
 love for this man. The only sense he 
 aroused in her was one of loathing. But, 
 this was different. It was her duty to see 
 if he was hurt, or 
 
 She wrapped a cape about her and went 
 down. 
 
 In the dining-room she halted and 
 called: "Philippe, where are you?" 
 
 She received no answer ; and passed on, 
 in breathless suspense, to the doorway of 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Philippe, seated on the edge of a chair, 
 sprawled, face downward, upon the table. 
 
 Within reach of his hands lay a crum 
 pled little mound of bank notes, which the 
 drunken man had taken from his pocket 
 to count, before falling asleep. He was 
 breathing heavily.
 
 2O4 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Mamman called him again. But, he 
 made no response. 
 
 A thought struck her, like the voice of 
 a person speaking: 
 
 The money Isabelle why not? 
 
 It was hers. Hers as much as his. 
 
 He was squandering it in the village. 
 
 That nameless thing was getting it. 
 
 This way it would do some good. At 
 least, it would be spent on her own. 
 
 What right had he to say yes or no, any 
 more than she, about their common hoard ? 
 
 She stole over to the table and lowered 
 her hand to the notes. 
 
 Slowly her fingers closed and tightened 
 on the crisp green bills. 
 
 With a furtive sweep, her hand disap 
 peared beneath the cape. 
 
 She retraced her steps to the dining- 
 room door. 
 
 A desire to make sure that Philippe had 
 not awakened prompted her to halt and 
 look back.
 
 The Golden Poppy 205 
 
 Her blood went cold. 
 
 In the window, peering into the room, 
 was the face of Nazaire. 
 
 Summoning her courage, she forced 
 herself to maintain a semblance of sang 
 froid and stood her ground. She beck 
 oned her brother-in-law to come in. 
 
 When he appeared, shame-faced, in the 
 doorway, she scrutinized him closely for 
 some facial intimation of what he might 
 have seen. 
 
 He remained stupidly sullen under her 
 gaze. 
 
 "Put him to bed," she said quietly; and 
 turned to go upstairs. 
 
 "I was wondering if he got home," lied 
 Nazaire, sheepishly, removing his cap. "I 
 saw him in the village and feared for his 
 safety. You see, he was showing his 
 money to some pretty bad men at la veuve 
 Duclos' and I thought I would look in, on 
 my way home, to see if he was safe." 
 
 Then, he had not seen her ! 
 
 For, if he had, he would not be able 
 thus to mask his feelings.
 
 2o6 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She heaved a great sigh of relief. 
 
 In her room, she bolted the door and 
 counted the money. 
 
 It was not enough; but it would have 
 to do. 
 
 She was nigh to collapse from the ter 
 rific strain, as she lowered the wick in the 
 lamp and went to bed. 
 
 Philippe was up at daylight. She heard 
 him searching the house, muttering to 
 himself the while. 
 
 After a time, he went out and har 
 nessed Charlemagne. 
 
 She heard him give a quick command. 
 Saw the horse plunge forward. And now, 
 her heart a-flutter, she stood, screened by 
 the mull curtain of her window, and 
 watched the carriage roll madly over the 
 highway to the crest of the knoll, where 
 it sank from view. 
 
 Philippe drew rein in front of the Du- 
 clos tavern; and went in.
 
 The Golden Poppy 207 
 
 The widow was cleaning glasses behind 
 the bar. She glanced up in puzzlement at 
 Labelle. This was an unusual hour for 
 him to be in the village. 
 
 "The money!" he gasped, rushing up 
 to the bar. "The money I got for the 
 feeders it's gone, every cent of it. Where 
 is it? What happened? Don't stare at 
 me that way ! Tell me where it is !" 
 
 "Lost all that money !" 
 
 "No, not lost stolen! How could I 
 have lost it? Besides, it was in different 
 pockets. It was stolen, I tell you. Nom 
 de Dieu, I will get it back or some son of 
 the devil will pay dearly. Come, what do 
 you know? Where is it? It was lost in 
 your place, you know." 
 
 "No, I did not know that," the woman 
 replied frigidly. 
 
 She laid down the glass towel and 
 stepped around in front of the bar to 
 where Labelle was standing. 
 
 Her arms went akimbo and her rose- 
 red cheeks turned the dull white of ivory 
 as she said:
 
 208 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Your money was stolen, you say?" 
 
 "Yes, very surely it was stolen." 
 
 "And you come here and ask me where 
 it is? Do you know that you are calling 
 me a thief?" 
 
 "I can't help what you think. The 
 money is gone. I lost it here, in your 
 place, and I come here to get it back. You 
 know who stole it. Now, that is plain 
 truth, is it not?" 
 
 The door opened and a number of men, 
 on their way to the potteries, trailed in. 
 
 Madame Duclos turned to the tallest, 
 a brawny, black-haired giant with pierc 
 ing eyes : 
 
 "Monsieur Choquette, you were here 
 last night. You saw Monsieur Labelle 
 showing fistfuls of money to all who came 
 in?" 
 
 "Oui, Madame. He waved it under my 
 nose until I was annoyed. But as he was 
 in his cups, I said nothing." 
 
 "That is true," chimed others of the 
 party. "He was showing it to all who 
 would look."
 
 The Golden Poppy 209 
 
 "And is it true or not that I begged him 
 to put his money in his pocket and go 
 home?" 
 
 "Absolutely true. Not once; but a num 
 ber of times." 
 
 "And now, he bursts in upon me and 
 says that he was robbed of his money last 
 night here, in my place; and tells me to 
 my teeth that I know the thief!" 
 
 "That is wrong," snapped Choquette, 
 striding up to Labelle, an evil glint in his 
 eyes. I saw you stuff the bills into your 
 pocket just as you turned to go. I was 
 sitting at that table, playing cards with 
 Benoit. I was facing the door and could 
 see. There was no one with you and you 
 went out alone. Now, don't you ever 
 again say that you were robbed in this 
 place while I was here for I would choke 
 you like a rat. You understand?" 
 
 "Just the same, Monsieur Choquette," 
 rejoined Labelle weakly, "you can't blame 
 a man for coming to the only place he was 
 in and expecting to find some trace of his 
 money?"
 
 2IO 
 
 "That is a very different tune from the 
 one you sang when you found me alone," 
 spoke Madame Duclos. "I can always be 
 civil to any one. But, to be called a thief !" 
 
 "I did not say that, Madame Duclos. 
 But, I must admit that I was hasty. You 
 see, it's a lot of money, and, naturally, I 
 was excited. Let us forget it and be good 
 friends. I shall look elsewhere for the 
 money. And, if it is gone, it is the fault 
 of none but Philippe Labelle, for making 
 such a fool of himself. Aliens, a nice little 
 drink for us all, Madame Duclos, if you 
 please." 
 
 They clinked glasses, the potters drink 
 ing sullenly to the truce. 
 
 Philippe made no mention of his loss at 
 home. Instead, he continued to search in 
 nooks and corners about the house and in 
 the barns, where he might have hidden the 
 money. 
 
 Finally, he gave it up as lost. 
 
 Never once did he suspect his wife, so 
 upright did he know her to be. 
 
 Nazaire said not a word of his exploit
 
 The Golden Poppy 211 
 
 to Philomene, who was asleep when he 
 reached home after dragging Philippe up 
 the stairs to his room. 
 
 He had seen his brother at the widow 
 Duclos', maudlin drunk, his hands full of 
 bank notes; and had followed him home 
 afoot from the village. 
 
 It had been his intention to enter the 
 house, when all was quiet, and take, him 
 self, what his brother denied him as the 
 wages of his labor. 
 
 His plan was upset by the appearance 
 of his brother's wife in the kitchen door 
 way, just as he raised himself to the win 
 dow and peered into the room. So, noth 
 ing was left for him to do but to put the 
 drunken man to bed and go home, a prey 
 to sullen rage. 
 
 "But, never mind," he had growled, in 
 savage hate, wheeling about on the high 
 way and shaking his clenched fist at the 
 dim outline of his brother's house. "Never 
 mind, Philippe Labelle, some day you will 
 settle your account with me!"
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. 
 
 Pierre, who had received a note from 
 Isabelle, advising him of her presence in 
 Lamartinette, drove out, one day, to the 
 homestead. 
 
 He carried a large black leather bag,' as 
 though he might be about to go forth on 
 a journey. 
 
 He greeted Isabelle warmly, his face 
 beaming delight. 
 
 She wore a close-fitting gown of black 
 velvet. 
 
 On her breast was a butterfly of black 
 and gold; and in her shimmering hair a 
 snow-white immortelle, from her mother's 
 garden. 
 
 Her great hazel eyes danced with the 
 gladness of the moment. Her red lips, 
 parted in a smile of welcome, revealed 
 
 [212]
 
 The Golden Poppy 213 
 
 flawless pearls of teeth. Her bearing was 
 that of a queen receiving a favored prince. 
 
 Never had she appeared so lovely to 
 Pierre. 
 
 When the greetings were over, he said 
 to Mrs. Labelle, pointing to the bag on 
 the floor: 
 
 "I have come to spend a few days with 
 you, Mamman. You see, it is like this: 
 I have completed my novitiate; and as I 
 have decided not to take my vows at this 
 time, I obtained permission to come home 
 for a short while." 
 
 "Ah, oui, the vows they are the part 
 ing of the ways," spoke Mamman. "It 
 was very wise and prudent of you to wait, 
 if you have any doubt of your calling. 
 Then there will be nothing to undo no 
 false step to regret." 
 
 In the afternoon, Pierre and Isabelle 
 went out into the fields. 
 
 Indian summer was upon the land. It 
 was a gold and russet day. The sun shone 
 warm and mellow on the stubbled earth. 
 
 Here and there a belated songster flung
 
 214 The Golden Poppy 
 
 his farewell notes to the laughing wind 
 and flew away. 
 
 They passed over the winding path that 
 led to the woods. 
 
 Here they had come as children, to 
 gather spring's earliest flowers, when the 
 snows had thawed and the trees taken on 
 their lace-work of tender green. 
 
 Here they watched the chipmunk store 
 his hoard against the hoary months of 
 winter and marvelled at the love-making 
 of the birds and the building of their nests 
 for the young. 
 
 They walked on until they came to the 
 sugar cabin, in the heart of the wood. 
 Built crudely of logs, the little structure 
 had stood the test of time, weathering the 
 winds and the rain, steadfast in its pur 
 pose to serve. 
 
 Above their heads, in the maples, gar 
 lands of wine-tinted leaves, still clinging 
 to the parent twigs, crooned the death 
 song of their short day. 
 
 They turned from the soughing trees
 
 The Golden Poppy 215 
 
 and followed the cow-tracks that skirted 
 the corn field down to the brook. 
 
 They came to a haw-tree, laden with 
 scarlet fruit, of which they had been wont 
 to eat in the autumn days of their child 
 hood. 
 
 A fallen oak, humbled by the blasts of 
 a mighty storm, lay on the edge of the 
 peaceful stream, dreaming, perhaps, of 
 the grandeur that had once been his. 
 
 Pierre, who carried his cape over his 
 arm, spread it out upon the trunk. They 
 seated themselves in silent accord. 
 
 The past surged in upon them in tu 
 multuous waves. 
 
 Resurgent memories clamored, insist 
 ent, about them from the purling eddies 
 of the brook, the glistening lush grasses 
 at their feet, the little swinging foot 
 bridge that spanned the babbling stream. 
 
 And their toy ships, which they had 
 builded and sent away to sea symbols of 
 the springtime of their lives. Where were 
 they now? To what distant phantom 
 shores had they sailed?
 
 216 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "It seems as though it were but yester 
 day," said Isabelle, "that we were here, a 
 boy and a girl at play." 
 
 "Yes," Pierre replied, "our years are 
 like the grains of sand in an hour-glass. 
 They have soon fled. And we remain, the 
 outer shells of what we were, nursing our 
 sores and sipping our cup of bitterness. 
 For, how many may say, when they have 
 grown old, that they would not do differ 
 ently, were it given them to live their 
 lives anew?" 
 
 "Why, you frighten me, Pierre," she 
 laughed. "You see, we are both quite 
 young, you and I, and it will be a long 
 time, many years, before we have gotten 
 to be the mere shells of what we are today. 
 Oh," she shuddered, "what an ugly 
 thought! And, besides, I hold that old 
 age should be both happy and beautiful. 
 Now, for example, take me: why should 
 I not make a lovely old lady?" 
 
 "You will," he rejoined, heartily, not 
 sharing her jest. "But, that is only part
 
 The Golden Poppy 217 
 
 of it. I pray that you will be as happy 
 then as now." 
 
 "I know, Pierre, that if you had it in 
 your power you would make all the world 
 happy. As for me, I am glad that I see 
 the brighter side of things. I would 
 rather think of the immortelles, that do 
 not perish like other flowers; the pines, 
 that are always green ; the faith of loving 
 hearts, that believes and endures through 
 dark and bitter days." 
 
 "I sometimes think," he said, "that a 
 kind providence arms one, at birth, for 
 the struggles one is destined to encounter 
 in life. Now, there is my little bossu, a 
 hunchback for life ; and "Patsy," my one- 
 legged boy; both hopelessly crippled; un 
 fitted for the contest, one might say. And 
 yet, the two of them vie with each other 
 in sunshine and sheer devilment, and, 
 seemingly without effort, divide between 
 them the honors of the class. On the 
 other hand, big, strapping fellows with 
 never a care but for their meals, do well 
 to maintain a heroic defense of the tail
 
 218 The Golden Poppy 
 
 end. My thought is that there is, in 
 reality, a well planned scheme of things. 
 The fool, the apparently unfit may, per 
 haps, be essential to the general balance. 
 This much is sure, they are happy by vir 
 tue of their limitations." 
 
 She looked up suddenly into his face 
 and said: 
 
 "And you, Pierre you are happy?" 
 
 A pebble rolled down the bank into the 
 water. 
 
 A frog, disturbed in his nap on the point 
 of a sun-kissed rock, plunged into the 
 brook. 
 
 Overhead, a crow flew by, cawing. 
 
 Pierre gazed into her eyes without 
 speaking those deep, gray wells of soul, 
 that reflected the color of dawn, the fires 
 of the noon-day sun. 
 
 He did not speak at once. He was 
 strangely moved. He felt the thrill of 
 warm red wine in his veins, the dizzying 
 surge of a great, unreasoning desire 
 mounting to his head and blinding him to
 
 The Golden Poppy 219 
 
 all but her, the wonder-child of his boy 
 hood, the lost treasure of his full estate. 
 
 With grim resolve he stayed the rising 
 tide of his emotions, more from a feeling 
 of shame at his weakness than from the 
 promptings of his moral code. He felt 
 relief at the sound of his own voice, as, 
 presently, he replied: 
 
 "Happy? Oh, yes, very surely. I am 
 quite happy." 
 
 A white cloud rose of out of the west 
 and raced across the blue dome of the 
 heavens. 
 
 Somewhere in the distance a cow-bell 
 tinkled drowsily. 
 
 A team of oxen, driven by the young 
 Laroche, the miller's son, swung slowly 
 up out of the valley to the crest of the 
 knoll in the road ; and then beyond. 
 
 By and by, the fires died in the west 
 ering sun and the winds that had sung 
 and caressed them grew sharp and chill. 
 
 She glanced at the blue hills, far away, 
 that seemed to rise up from the bosom of 
 the earth to greet the descending orb.
 
 22O The Golden Poppy 
 
 "The sun is setting, Pierre." 
 
 A great scarlet globe hung suspended 
 over a turquoise peak, like a garish lan 
 tern. 
 
 Slowly it sank below, firing the clouds 
 in its wake until they seemed a rolling 
 mass of gold and copper. 
 
 Pierre turned to Isabelle. 
 
 "Shall we go?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, wistfully, he 
 thought. 
 
 Then, she added, taking his arm and 
 pointing to a little path now partly hidden 
 from view by sprawling grasses : 
 
 "Through the wheat field, Pierre, 
 where the poppies grew."
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. 
 
 As they came around from the fields to 
 the front of the house, Isabelle was aston 
 ished to see Randon standing with her 
 father on the veranda. 
 
 She had no intimation from David of 
 any intention to visit Lamartinette. 
 
 Instinctively her thoughts flew to the 
 money, which was the object of her home 
 coming. 
 
 She was torn by emotions of shame on 
 the one hand ; on the other, of foreboding. 
 
 As she and Pierre neared the steps, 
 David nodded, smiling. He stepped away 
 from Labelle to greet his wife. He took 
 her hand in his own and kissed her on the 
 lips. He grasped Pierre by the hand, 
 loosely, in a formal, perfunctory way. 
 
 And now he turned back to his father- 
 in-law and resumed his conversation. 
 
 [221]
 
 222 The Golden Poppy 
 
 He was irreproachably attired. There 
 was a harsh, jangling contrast between 
 the immaculate elegance of the young doc 
 tor and the coarse, ill-fitting frieze of 
 Philippe, whose long-legged boots told 
 plainly of a recent trip to the stables. 
 
 Isabelle followed Pierre into the house 
 and straightway sought her mother, who 
 was directing Ernestine in the kitchen. 
 
 "Come, my child," said Mamman; and 
 led her away to her room, where she 
 bolted the door. Going over to her dress 
 er, she unlocked the lower drawer and, 
 from beneath a pile of linen, brought forth 
 a roll of bank notes, which she handed to 
 her daughter, saying: 
 
 "Twenty-eight hundred dollars, cherie. 
 It is all I could get. I hope it will do ; for 
 it will be impossible for me to secure any 
 more. I have not brought up the subject 
 of the money sooner, because I would have 
 preferred not to speak of it until you were 
 about to leave. But, now that David has 
 come, it is imperative that I speak to you. 
 And, while I am about it, I might as well
 
 The Golden Poppy 223 
 
 acquaint you with the true circumstances 
 surrounding both transactions. Your 
 father refused point blank to advance the 
 first sum of five thousand. So, I went to 
 Pierre, who let me have it gladly." 
 
 "Pierre!" exclaimed Isabelle, coloring 
 deeply. 
 
 "Yes, my dear. It was all that was left 
 me to do. I had your welfare in mind, of 
 course ; and your happiness. This," point 
 ing to the notes in her daughter's hand, 
 "I took from your father, as he sprawled 
 over the kitchen table in a drunken stupor. 
 He does not suspect the truth. Now, my 
 child, you know all. I hope your husband 
 will decide to return to Montreal some 
 time tomorrow. You see, David and your 
 father should be kept apart. There is no 
 telling what might transpire to make 
 Philippe suspicious of the truth." 
 
 A wave of shame, mingled with indig 
 nation, swept over Isabelle, as the bitter 
 words poured from her mother's lips. 
 
 Then, Pierre knew; he had known, all 
 along, that she and David had merely bol-
 
 224 The Golden Poppy 
 
 stered up a semblance of success and pros 
 perity! And it was his money that had 
 enabled them to pose in Montreal ! Why, 
 the very dress she was wearing at this 
 moment had been purchased with funds 
 belonging to Pierre ! The undergarments 
 of filmy silk the costly, embroidered 
 hose, the delicately beautiful shoes his, 
 Pierre's money, had paid for them all! 
 Oh, this was too much ! 
 
 She did not find it in her heart to blame 
 her mother, who had done everything for 
 the best. But, oh, why had fate conspired 
 thus to humiliate and cheapen her? 
 
 Mamman had turned to the dresser and 
 was closing the drawer. 
 
 Isabelle left her in silence. 
 
 She went to her room and flung herself 
 upon the bed, her face, fired with shame, 
 buried in the pillows. 
 
 Ernestine called her for the evening 
 meal. But she did not go down. Soon, 
 she heard footsteps in the hall. A moment 
 later David entered the room and closed 
 the door. Isabelle had risen from the bed.
 
 The Golden Poppy 225 
 
 She was seated at the window, gazing out 
 into the gloaming. Randon crossed over 
 to a seat near his wife and came straight 
 to the point: 
 
 "I came," he began, "to see about the 
 money. You have been gone from home 
 some time and I expected to hear from 
 you before this." 
 
 "I wrote you a day or two after my 
 arrival," she replied, "but received no re 
 ply from you." 
 
 "Yes, but you made no mention of the 
 money, in your letter that was what I 
 wanted to know about." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Well, what I mean to say is that it 
 was the all-important thing for both of 
 us, you know." 
 
 "Here it is all I could get. All I will 
 be able to get. My mother gave it to me 
 a little while ago, after I came home from 
 the fields. My father is not to be ap 
 proached. He refuses to advance a 
 dollar.
 
 226 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "But, the first five thousand: didn't 
 
 u 
 
 "No. He refused. I have just learned 
 the truth from my mother. She then went 
 to Pierre. He let her have it." 
 
 He flattened the bills on the dresser and 
 counted the money eagerly. 
 
 "Twenty-eight hundred dollars," he 
 announced, when he had done. And, 
 wheeling about to face her: "This will 
 never do. It destroys all my plans. It 
 swamps me!" 
 
 "It makes almost eight thousand dol 
 lars in all, David. I am sorry if it is not 
 enough. But it is all I can do." 
 
 "If I thought I could reason with your 
 father, I would try to show him the error 
 of his way." 
 
 "My father is not one to be easily per 
 suaded to part with his money. I am quite 
 sure it would be useless, David." 
 
 He stood a moment in thought, his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "Then, I will leave tonight. There is 
 nothing to accomplish by staying here."
 
 The Golden Poppy 227 
 
 He looked at his watch : 
 
 "There is a train for Montreal due here 
 at eight. That will give me just time 
 enough to drive in. Will you tell them 
 
 downstairs ?" 
 
 "I will drive you to the station myself," 
 she replied, "in the car." 
 
 She was piqued by his coldness, deeply 
 wounded by the arrogance of his bearing 
 towards her. She rose to her feet. 
 
 "I must see Bissonette," she said, "to 
 make sure the car is ready." 
 
 He followed her downstairs; and re 
 mained in the dining-room, with Mam- 
 man, while his wife went out in search of 
 the man. 
 
 At the last moment, Isabelle complained 
 of a headache and decided not to accom 
 pany him to the station. 
 
 The parting was cold and formal. Yes, 
 she would stay and have a nice visit while 
 she was here. Oh, she would take good 
 care of herself. And he must tell An 
 toinette to water the ferns.
 
 228 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She was very brave when he swept his 
 lips over hers in a swift, fleeting kiss. 
 
 In a trice, he had climbed to the seat 
 and the car was rolling down the drive 
 way. 
 
 She smiled and waved her hand to him 
 as he glanced back, at the turn in the 
 road. The tail-light glimmered like a 
 glow-worm in the gloom of early night; 
 rose swiftly to the peak of the knoll; and 
 flickered out. 
 
 Mamman and Pierre were seated in the 
 kitchen when she went in. She lighted a 
 lamp and bade them good-night. 
 
 "Shall we drive to the Point tomorrow, 
 Isabelle?" said Pierre. 
 
 "Yes I shall be glad to go, Pierre," 
 she replied. "The scenery must be beau 
 tiful at this time." 
 
 She wanted to remain with them a 
 while ; to sit and chat and watch the flames 
 leaping in the fireplace. But her heart 
 was too full; too sad. Dazed by a new 
 born fear, she climbed the stairs to her 
 room ; and went to bed.
 
 The Golden Poppy 229 
 
 During the days that followed, Pierre 
 and Isabelle spent much of the time to 
 gether, roaming the fields and the wild- 
 wood, revisiting scenes endeared to them 
 by childhood memories, in the serene com 
 radeship of perfect understanding. 
 
 Nazaire said to Philomene, one day, 
 over his soup: 
 
 "It's strange is it not, bonne femme? 
 They're never apart, those two. Where 
 you see one you see the other. Now, why, 
 I ask you, did she not marry Pierre, in 
 stead of that silk hat from the city? He 
 struts about like a peacock. I don't like 
 him!" 
 
 "Each one to his taste, mon vieux," re 
 plied his wife. "You can't account for 
 the foolish things a young girl will do. 
 Look at me, for example." 
 
 "Eh bien what about it?"
 
 230 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Why, you know well enough that I 
 could have had my choice of a dozen splen 
 did matches. And, instead of using good 
 sense, I chose to live in poverty." 
 
 "You speak like one who is touched in 
 the head, bonne femme. Pretty soon you 
 will be needing a doctor, I'm thinking. 
 I'm quite sure you're no worse off now 
 than when I saw you, for the first time, 
 peeling potatoes in the Bessette kitchen. 
 Talk sense, bonne femme. Else, say 
 nothing." 
 
 "Just the same, I have sense enough to 
 know that I would not be playing second 
 fiddle to a rich brother, besides adding to 
 his wealth by my daily toil. I have sense 
 enough to know that, my good man 
 understand ?" 
 
 "I understand a good many things. 
 That's not where the trouble lies. It's 
 getting them into action after you under 
 stand them. Now, is that clear to you? 
 You are forever holding that good-for- 
 nothing before my eyes. You preach and
 
 The Golden Poppy 231 
 
 nag and scold about him until I wish you 
 both to the devil. Now, since you are so 
 wise, you tell me what I am to do. I am 
 listening. Tell me!" 
 
 "Break his neck," snapped Philomene, 
 rising to refill her bowl. 
 
 "I thought as much," rejoined Nazaire. 
 "You preach to me, but you yourself have 
 no remedy to offer." 
 
 There was silence for a space. Pres 
 ently, Philomene turned from the soup pot 
 to face Nazaire. 
 
 "Well," she said, "suppose Philippe did 
 break his neck accidentally? Suppose 
 he fell?" 
 
 Nazaire stared at his wife in mute as 
 tonishment. At last he spoke: 
 
 "Nom de Dieu, you are a wicked 
 woman ! On my soul, I believe you would 
 do it!" 
 
 So saying, he picked up his cap and hur 
 ried out of the house. Philomene watched 
 him through the window until he had dis 
 appeared behind the pig-stye. Then, with
 
 232 The Golden Poppy 
 
 a shrug of her shoulders, she went back 
 to her soup. 
 
 Through the long afternoon Nazaire 
 wielded the flail in his brother's barn. 
 With machine-like precision, the loose- 
 hanging club swung in a deadly circle 
 over his head and struck the rattling pea- 
 vines at his feet. But, he gave little 
 thought to the work in hand; and was 
 more like a clock that tells off the hours 
 without recking of time or tide. 
 
 He saw but the hate-driven face of his 
 wife as she stood by the kitchen stove. He 
 heard no sound but the rasp of her voice, 
 cold and unyielding, pointing the way. 
 
 Philippe came into the barn towards 
 evening. 
 
 "How much have you done ?" he asked, 
 with the jovial air which he affected at 
 times. 
 
 "You can see," said Nazaire, with a 
 sweep of the hand towards the sacks of 
 peas. 
 
 "A good day's work," commended the 
 great man.
 
 The Golden Poppy 233 
 
 Nazaire swung the flail aloft and struck 
 into the rhythmic thud. 
 
 He was numbly aware of a feeling of 
 guilt, which closed his lips in silence and 
 lowered his eyes before his brother's gaze.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. 
 
 Isabelle remained at Lamartinette until 
 the middle of December. 
 
 Throughout her stay at the homestead 
 she received occasional letters from Da 
 vid, which were largely of a perfunctory 
 nature and general in tone. He had in 
 variably omitted any reference to his 
 progress in establishing an office; but re 
 peatedly emphasized the drain on his re 
 sources resulting from the demands made 
 upon him by what he termed the winning 
 of his goal. 
 
 Reluctantly and with anguish she came 
 to realize that those ideals which were to 
 her the very essence of happiness passed 
 above his head, like summer clouds, un 
 known and unseen. 
 
 She had builded a castle on the moun- 
 
 [234]
 
 The Golden Poppy 235 
 
 tain top and had entered in to await his 
 coming. 
 
 But, he had remained below in the val 
 ley, his vision obscured by the blur of the 
 mists. 
 
 Upon her return to Montreal, David 
 met her at the station. They drove home. 
 
 On the way through the crowded 
 streets, he told her that he had taken "an 
 other chance on wheat," and lost a thou 
 sand dollars. He spoke in a matter-of- 
 fact tone, going on to explain that he had 
 acted for the best. 
 
 "Nothing risked, nothing won," he 
 said. 
 
 Tabor had induced him to try again; 
 and had handled the money together with 
 his own. He, too, had lost; and heavily. 
 
 Isabelle remained silent. She dared not 
 trust herself to speech. Her whole being 
 rose up in hot rebellion. It was unjust 
 and unfair thus to gamble away the goods 
 of another, for which he had saved and 
 striven and toiled. It was a wanton abuse 
 of her mother's loving trust. It would
 
 236 The Golden Poppy 
 
 never occur again. Not through any aid 
 of hers. 
 
 She did not question the motives of 
 David. But, certain it was that his hun 
 ger for show and affluence had gotten the 
 better of his good sense. He was being 
 led away by the false faces of appearance. 
 But, not she. A thousand dollars! One 
 would have thought it was water, or air 
 the way he referred to it. And this Ta 
 bor how did David know what he had 
 done with the money? No, it was not 
 right. It was wrong, very wrong. In 
 stinctively she shrank from the thought 
 that she had been a party to what she 
 considered the fleecing of her people. 
 
 "So, you are little better off than you 
 were," she ventured. 
 
 "I have furnished an office, purchased 
 surgical supplies and paid off a number of 
 bills. I now have a balance of something 
 like six hundred dollars. Not so bad, 
 everything considered. By the way, 
 Demers dropped five thousand on the same 
 day."
 
 The Golden Poppy 237 
 
 "Did Tabor act for Demers handle 
 the money for him, too?" asked Isabelle. 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "How did Demers feel about it?" 
 
 "Pretty glum. But, he'll get over it. 
 You see, his father has money. Why do 
 you ask?" 
 
 "Well, it seems strange to me that Ta 
 bor is willing to take on all this responsi 
 bility for other people's money if it means 
 no added advantage to him." 
 
 "Oh, I presume it does give him in 
 creased prestige on the Exchange, or with 
 his brokers." 
 
 "Who are his brokers?" 
 
 "I can't say, as he prefers to work under 
 cover; to remain unknown. In this way 
 he enjoys more freedom of action." 
 
 "But, David, his standing, his reputa 
 tion what do you know about him? 
 Really, it all seems very strange to me." 
 
 He forced a careless laugh. 
 
 "Suspicion of other people's motives," 
 he rejoined, "is bucolic, countrified. It 
 smacks of the unsophisticated. You must
 
 238 The Golden Poppy 
 
 believe the other fellow to be honest until 
 he forces you to think otherwise." 
 
 Isabelle was sick at heart. She made 
 no reply. A moment later they swung 
 around onto Sherbrook street and were 
 home. 
 
 One evening, a few days later, Demers 
 and Fantine called on the Randons. Da 
 vid had not yet come home. 
 
 Fantine was a charming little brunette, 
 with snowy teeth and dancing black eyes. 
 A diminutive parcel of happiness, 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
 They remained but a short while. 
 When they were leaving, Demers en 
 quired, in a casual way, whether Isabelle 
 had seen the Tabors since her return to 
 the city. 
 
 No, she had not, she replied. In fact, 
 interviews with the Tabors came a trifle 
 too high for her means. 
 
 She had no sooner spoken than she re 
 gretted her words. 
 
 Demers colored and said: 
 
 "I have been of the same mind for some
 
 The Golden Poppy 239 
 
 time. I am very glad to know that I am 
 not alone." 
 
 They were gone but a few moments 
 when David came in. He was in high 
 spirits. 
 
 He had met St. Julien at the clinic. The 
 great surgeon had greeted him warmly 
 and informed himself of his pupil's pros 
 pects. He expressed himself as feeling 
 assured of Randon's ultimate success. 
 But, he had told him, he must specialize. 
 In specialization lay the secret to rapid 
 success and recognition. He had an idea. 
 In fact, he had been thinking of David 
 for some time. A wealthy man, by the 
 name of Rochette, had come to him with 
 his little boy, who was afflicted with a con 
 genital disease. The greatest known spe 
 cialist in such cases was in Vienna. St. 
 Julien had advised Rochette to take the 
 little fellow abroad and place him in the 
 hands of the Viennese professor. He had 
 no doubt that a cure could be effected. A 
 medical companion would be required to 
 give the treatments and watch over the
 
 240 The Golden Poppy 
 
 general health of the child. The party 
 would be abroad in the neighborhood of 
 three years. He would receive liberal 
 compensation for his services and further 
 more would have ample time to attend the 
 clinics in Vienna the greatest in the 
 world. He would return to Montreal a 
 specialist. He could then become St. 
 Julien's assistant; for the latter's practice 
 was fast growing beyond him. A mag 
 nificent opportunity. Would he accept it ? 
 Would he go? 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and lighted 
 a cigar. 
 
 "And " urged Isabelle, in breathless 
 suspense. 
 
 . "Why, I accepted, of course. I met the 
 
 Rochettes. They are fine people. The 
 
 mother is going too. Our party sails early 
 
 in May. Just think of it-r-I shall return 
 
 .to Canada a great man, an established 
 
 .specialist It's simply wonderful. I think 
 
 . I shall .take up St. t Julien's work: ortho- 
 
 paedia. .It has always, interested me."
 
 The Golden Poppy 241 
 
 He rose and poured a swallow of 
 brandy, which he tossed off. 
 
 "I will require a wardrobe," he went 
 on. "You can't turn around without 
 money. But, it's worth it. I'm playing 
 for big stakes and, I'm winning!" 
 
 He slapped his thigh and laughed nerv 
 ously, at thought of his future conquest. 
 Turning serious again, he said: 
 
 "Now, you might as well stay right 
 here. There would be nothing to gain by 
 closing the house. And, besides, we want 
 our own home. It will look bigger to keep 
 the place open during my absence. It will 
 lend an air of substance to me. You can 
 keep Antoinette. Well, why are you 
 silent? What do you say about it?" 
 
 'T have been listening to you, David," 
 replied Isabelle, striving hard to control 
 her voice ; for she was very nigh to tears. 
 "Oh, surely. But, now that I have told 
 you, what do you think of it ? Isn't it 
 wonderful?" ' ,.. . .. ;;.;: 
 
 "Yes, David, it is. It is wonderful." 
 '."Well, but would you go?"
 
 242 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "You have accepted St. Julien's offer, 
 have you not?" 
 
 "Why, yes, of course." 
 
 "Then, you must go, David. It is the 
 opportunity of a lifetime. You are on 
 your way to recognition to greatness. 
 It would be folly not to go. As to keeping 
 the house open, I shall think it over. It 
 will, of course, be largely a matter of ad 
 justing myself to circumstances." 
 
 "I don't quite understand," he said. 
 
 "Neither do I," she smiled. "I presume 
 we shall both understand later on as 
 conditions develop. If I see that it is the 
 better course to remain here and keep 
 Antoinette I shall very naturally do so. 
 But, just at this moment, neither one of 
 us can say what would be best. You leave 
 in May?" 
 
 "Yes, probably the first week. By the 
 way, Tabor has bought tickets for a box 
 party. Would you like to go? We are 
 to meet them at the theatre." 
 
 "No, I think not. I am very much taken
 
 243 
 
 up with my novel. You go, David; and 
 I will stay home and read." 
 
 Before leaving, he came over to her 
 and kissed her on the lips : 
 
 "Of course, you will be lonesome when 
 I am gone," he said. "Three years, you 
 see, is a long time. But, then, you must 
 think of the goal. Is it not so?" 
 
 "Surely, the goal, David. The goal is 
 everything. Nothing else matters." 
 
 "You are very brave," he laughed, a 
 trifle puzzled. 
 
 "I never knew that I was. But, really, 
 I seem to be, do I not?" 
 
 "Yes, very brave, indeed. It is in mo 
 ments of great stress that virtues are 
 born. You appear to have all the ele 
 ments of a good and dutiful wife. I feel 
 quite proud of you, Isabelle." 
 
 When he had gone, she laid aside the 
 book which she had taken up. 
 
 She was inexpressibly shocked by the 
 grossness of his texture, the utter small- 
 ness of the man who was her mate. She 
 felt no bitterness toward David. For she
 
 244 The Golden Poppy 
 
 knew that those were the attributes of his 
 nature, over whose making he had had 
 no control. 
 
 But, oh, the cruel heartache, the cold 
 brutality of the revelation! Her life- 
 dream lay shattered at her feet. She 
 knew it well. She could never be happy 
 in the comradeship of this man. 
 
 His very presence was a stone wall to 
 the love she would have lavished upon 
 him. 
 
 Dutiful! The most detestable of all 
 words between man and wife. 
 
 And she was a "dutiful wife!" 
 
 Then, that was his conception of wed 
 ded life, of the sacred, golden links of 
 love! 
 
 Her house lay tumbled about her. The 
 hot blood surged madly in her veins. He 
 did not love her! He did not love her! 
 He was incapable of love. Utterly so. 
 And she had never known. She had given 
 herself to a man who could not love. And 
 she would live with him all the years until 
 life was at an end, knowing that there
 
 The Golden Poppy 245 
 
 was no love, that there could be no love 
 in his heart for her. She would be but a 
 chattel, bearing the seal of church and 
 law. And thousands had gone before her, 
 thousands were living now, the self-same 
 way dutiful wives. 
 
 Why had he not planned to take her 
 with him to Vienna? It would have cost 
 no more than to maintain the home during 
 his absence. Not as much. 
 
 Instead of the companionship to which 
 she was entitled, he had, without consult 
 ing her wishes, coolly decreed unspeakable 
 misery for her. He had plainly shown 
 that he wished to go without her. For, 
 he spoke of Rochette taking his wife, yet 
 made no mention of her. Her head 
 whirled giddily. 
 
 The room was too warm. The ticking 
 of the clock struck like hammer blows. 
 The Venus over the books appeared gro 
 tesquely white would she never find her 
 arms? Her eyes wandered back to the 
 clock. It was early yet. It was suffocat-
 
 246 The Golden Poppy 
 
 ing here! She must go somewhere do 
 something. 
 
 She picked up the evening paper and 
 scanned the week's attractions. She ran 
 down the list until she came to "The Lady 
 Who Lived in the Moon." That would 
 do. She stepped to the kitchen door. 
 
 "Antoinette," she said gaily, "you must 
 dress quickly. We are going to the thea 
 tre and we have but a few minutes' 
 time!" 
 
 She called a cab and hurried away to 
 dress.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. 
 
 It was a memorable winter in Lamar- 
 tinette. 
 
 Early in November the snows began to 
 fall over the frozen, leaf-strewn earth. 
 
 Soon, the rolling country was an un 
 broken landscape of shimmering white. 
 
 The habitants went about their daily 
 tasks in the barns and stables, at the 
 wood-pile, or at chores about the house. 
 
 On fine days they drove to the village, 
 where they held forth in weighty councils 
 in store and tavern. 
 
 Clothed in the thick drap-de-pays, their 
 tuques pulled down snugly over their ears, 
 they had no fear of the biting cold, of the 
 blasts that rode in from the north. 
 
 None the less, it was a winter such as 
 few had known. 
 
 The flames leaped blue in the fireside 
 
 [247]
 
 248 The Golden Poppy 
 
 and the night winds howled like many 
 wolves. The sun was a yellow blur. The 
 snow cracked like a whip under the foot. 
 Day by day the cold grew more intense. 
 Day by day the silence fell more solemn 
 over the wide expanse. The Jour de 1'An 
 was a bitter day. 
 
 New Year's Day among the habitants 
 sounds the beginning of a week's carouse 
 such as is known nowhere else beneath 
 God's canopy. Town and campagne turn 
 into one great abode of fetes and merri 
 ment. "Bonne Annee" flits joyfully from 
 mouth to mouth, as good wishes for the 
 New Year are sped upon their way. It 
 is a great event. 
 
 The grudge is forgotten. The glasses 
 clink. Song shouts boldly to the stinging 
 wind. The dance holds sway. It is the 
 feast of the habitants. All else matters 
 not. 
 
 The night of the Jour de 1'An found
 
 The Golden Poppy 249 
 
 Philippe Labelle in the tavern of the 
 widow Duclos. 
 
 As the hour grew late Philippe grew 
 drunk. 
 
 And when he made a brave attempt to 
 sing "Le Petit Cure de St. Denis" as a 
 parting contribution to the soiree, he 
 crumpled up limply on the floor. 
 
 The widow was for putting him to bed. 
 But, he would not have it so, although he 
 had slept here many times. 
 
 So, they bundled him warmly in his 
 sleigh and threw the reins about him. 
 
 Charlemagne pricked up his ears and 
 started off. Charlemagne was safe. A 
 child could drive him. And, he knew the 
 way. 
 
 A half hour later, Nazaire heard the rig 
 turning over the culvert and stepped to 
 the door of the barn, lantern in hand. He 
 was here to await Philippe's coming; for 
 he felt quite sure that his brother would 
 be too drunk to care for the horse. And 
 it was far too cold a night for the doors 
 to be left open.
 
 250 The Golden Poppy 
 
 He raised the lantern above his head 
 and waited. A mellow stream of light fell 
 across the yard. Charlemagne came on to 
 the barns without halting at the house. 
 
 Seeing Nazaire, he stopped short. 
 There was no one in the seat. 
 
 Nazaire looked into the sleigh and 
 lifted the robes. 
 
 "Bon Dieu !" he exclaimed, "I don't see 
 Philippe!" 
 
 He walked around the rig, making an 
 inspection of horse and sleigh. 
 
 A shaft was broken. He could not 
 drive back to look for his brother. He 
 would go a-foot. 
 
 He put up Charlemagne and started off 
 in quest of Philippe. 
 
 No more than a half-mile from the 
 house he came upon him, at a point where 
 the road turned in a short curve. 
 
 Philippe was lying back limply in the 
 lap of a snow bank, apparently none the 
 worse for his fall; but sound asleep. 
 
 Nazaire held the lantern to the face of 
 the drunken man.
 
 The Golden Poppy 251 
 
 Bending over, he seized him by the arm. 
 
 "Come," he said gruffly, "I am here to 
 take you home." 
 
 Philippe grunted contentedly and drew 
 free his arm, which fell back limply on 
 the snow. 
 
 He did not open his eyes. 
 
 He was very drunk, mused Nazaire. 
 
 He would not be able to walk. 
 
 And he was too heavy to carry. 
 
 The shaft was broken, else it would 
 have been simple to load him into the 
 sleigh and tumble him off at the house. 
 
 Parbleu! It was a nasty bit of work. 
 
 How to go about it was beyond him. 
 
 Ah, there was the box-sleigh! Why 
 had he not thought of that before? No 
 wonder Philomene said he was thick and 
 dull. 
 
 Philomene the name opened a train 
 of thought in the sluggish brain. 
 
 What was it she had said to him, that 
 day, standing by the stove, soup bowl in 
 hand? 
 
 "Suppose he did fall accidentally."
 
 252 The Golden Poppy 
 
 That was it. 
 
 That was what Philomene had said to 
 him. 
 
 Sacre ! 
 
 And there lay Philippe before him, like 
 a beast in the mire, where he had fallen 
 accidentally. 
 
 Tonnerre! It was no affair of his. 
 
 He had done nothing to bring about 
 this state of things. 
 
 No human being could live in such a 
 night as this. 
 
 With Philippe out of the way, there 
 would be something more in life than 
 soup, salt pork and potatoes. 
 
 He would manage the farm for his 
 brother's wife. 
 
 He would be consulted in matters of 
 importance. 
 
 They could live, he and Philomene, as 
 they wished to live, as they had a right 
 to live. 
 
 His sister-in-law would need him. 
 
 She would pay handsomely for his 
 services.
 
 The Golden Poppy 253 
 
 He straightened in his tracks. 
 
 A vision of ease and comfort flitted be 
 fore him. 
 
 Philippe slept peacefully at his feet, un 
 conscious of the cold that was slowly 
 numbing his limbs. 
 
 Soon, it would creep up stealthily, 
 soothingly, to his heart and he would 
 enter the long sleep and awake no more. 
 
 Nazaire gazed down upon .the sprawl 
 ing form. 
 
 What did he owe this man, this brother 
 in the flesh ? 
 
 What had Philippe been to him, but a 
 hard and unjust master? 
 
 Whose fault was it, but his own, that 
 he was now lying there, a drunken pig, 
 by the roadside. 
 
 For years he had suffered injustice at 
 his hands. 
 
 If it was the will of the Bon Dieu for 
 this good-for-nothing to die in the ditch, 
 then let him die in the ditch! 
 
 He, Nazaire, would not interfere.
 
 254 
 
 No doubt, it was a judgment from 
 Heaven. 
 
 Soit so be it ! 
 
 He extinguished the flame in the lan 
 tern and started off down the white high 
 way that led to his home. 
 
 Once, as he went, he thought he heard 
 the voice of Philippe, calling him. 
 
 He halted and looked back, listening. 
 
 A great stillness lay over the moon- 
 bathed snows. 
 
 He hurried on, conscious of a rising 
 sense of guilt. 
 
 A twig snapped in a tree, above his 
 head. 
 
 He broke into a run, his brain in a panic 
 of fear. 
 
 He dashed madly from tree to tree, 
 along the road, until the outline of his cot 
 tage rose in the moonlight before his 
 frighted eyes. 
 
 Home, he bolted the door securely, re 
 moved his boots and stole away to bed. 
 
 Philomene was asleep. He was careful
 
 255 
 
 not to wake her. She must not know. 
 None should ever know. 
 
 It was his secret. His and the Bon 
 Dieu's. 
 
 It was a bitter night. 
 
 No habitants drove over the long white 
 road. 
 
 Once, Philippe Labelle opened wide his 
 eyes to stare in silent wonder at the pale 
 disc of moon above him. 
 
 He did not close his eyes again. 
 
 And through the crystal night he kept 
 his silent vigil, wide-eyed, wondering, 
 waiting, as though he might have had a 
 loving tryst and was faithful at the ren 
 dezvous.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. 
 
 The plans of Nazaire worked out to a 
 nicety. 
 
 The day after the funeral Mamman 
 Labelle held a conference with her broth 
 er-in-law and his wife on the future con 
 duct of affairs on the farm. 
 
 It was arranged that they would move 
 into the homestead. 
 
 Philomene would do no more sewing 
 for the women of Lamartinette. She 
 might assist Ernestine in the work about 
 the house sufficiently to offset the increase 
 in the girl's labours ; no more. 
 
 Philomene and Nazaire would have the 
 room made vacant by the death of Phi 
 lippe. A liberal stipend and an annual 
 bonus were agreed upon. It was all very 
 simple. Nazaire was amazed at his good 
 fortune. He would be the manager. His 
 
 [256]
 
 The Golden Poppy 257 
 
 word would be law wherever his duties 
 took him. And Philomene, a lady in her 
 own home, as one might say. 
 
 Parbleu! This was a turn in the road, 
 to be sure. 
 
 He swelled with pride at the thought 
 of his achievement. 
 
 As a token of benevolence, he told Bis- 
 sonette that he might move into "the 
 cottage yonder," and that it would cost 
 him nothing in rent. 
 
 "And cast about for another hand," he 
 said. "Some strong, willing lad, looking 
 for a good home." 
 
 "What is that you say?" asked Philo 
 mene, who had come up, unheard, behind 
 the two men. 
 
 "I say to you, good woman," thundered 
 Nazaire, "to go into the house and look 
 after your own affairs !" 
 
 So saying, he walked off towards the 
 barns, leaving her wilted in her tracks. 
 
 In the course of a few days, a young 
 man appeared and was engaged to work 
 about the farm.
 
 258 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "And your name, my good fellow?" 
 queried Nazaire, when the youth had 
 been hired. 
 
 "Theophile Dumoulin from Sainte 
 Anne." 
 
 "Ah, oui, from Sainte Anne. Eh, bien, 
 this is Bissonette. You will work with 
 him. And I am Monsieur Labelle un 
 derstand ?" 
 
 "Oui, Monsieur Labelle." 
 
 "Tres bien. Very well." 
 
 "Monsieur Labelle!" laughed Bisson 
 ette when he found himself alone. Sacre, 
 but some people were lacking good sense! 
 
 Isabelle was deeply shocked by the news 
 of her father's tragic death. 
 
 She left at once for Lamartinette. 
 David did not arrive until the morning of 
 the funeral. He returned to Montreal in 
 the evening. 
 
 "Stay a few days with your mother," 
 he said to his wife. "No doubt, she needs 
 you, now. And, besides, she will wish to 
 consult with you on the settlement of the 
 estate. Did your father leave a will?"
 
 The Golden Poppy 259 
 
 "I cannot say, David. I have never 
 heard of one. Doret, the notary, would 
 know; or, Mamman, perhaps." 
 
 "I see. Well, you can make enquiries 
 and advise me by letter. You understand, 
 of course, that it is an all-important mat 
 ter to us this question of funds. For, I 
 cannot get started off to Europe without 
 considerable outlay, not to speak of the 
 expense in the home." 
 
 Isabelle made no reply. 
 
 "That is clear to you, is it not?" he 
 urged, after a silence. 
 
 "Oh, yes, David," she replied, "it is 
 quite clear to me. But, I am determined 
 to make no more advances to my mother 
 for money. If she takes the initiative, 
 well and good. But, I shall humble my 
 self no more to any one of my people. I 
 have gone to them for the last time." 
 
 "Then, what shall we do?" he snapped. 
 
 "Work out our own salvation, as thou 
 sands of others have done." 
 
 His face went white. His lip curled 
 in a sneer as he said :
 
 260 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to see me in 
 a buckboard, bumping over the country 
 roads, doling out pills to the habitants." 
 
 She smiled wistfully as she rejoined : 
 
 "That might not be so bad, David, if 
 only we lived within our means and stood 
 on our own feet. However it may be," 
 she concluded resolutely, "I shall make no 
 more overtures to my people." 
 
 "But, it is your money, now. The law 
 gives it to you." 
 
 "Then, my dear, is that not all the more 
 reason why we should not show undue 
 haste eagerness to grasp our share? 
 Don't you suppose Mamman has all the 
 trouble she can bear, without annoying 
 her about money at this time?" 
 
 There was more in her mind than she 
 betrayed. 
 
 She was determined that not a foot of 
 ground would be sacrificed for her. 
 
 The home would remain intact as long 
 as her mother lived. 
 
 And Pierre would be repaid his five
 
 The Golden Poppy 261 
 
 thousand before she would accept a dollar 
 from the estate. 
 
 She would have told David as much 
 frankly. But, in the face of his anger she 
 concluded to say no more. 
 
 "Have your way about it, then," he 
 growled, turning to his bag. 
 
 He left in a huff. Isabelle went out 
 into the yard to see him off. 
 
 But, he was already gone. 
 
 Chagrined and sore at heart, she re- 
 entered the house and mounted the stairs 
 to her mother's room. 
 
 Mother and child sat before the leaping 
 fire and talked of the one who had died. 
 
 They spoke only of his good traits, 
 leaving his faults in the shadow of merci 
 ful silence. It was late when Isabelle 
 kissed Mamman and went to her room. 
 Somehow, a load had been lifted. She 
 was conscious of a greater freedom. Her 
 mind was at rest. She had settled an ac 
 count with her conscience. David would 
 see that she was right. He had not
 
 262 The Golden Poppy 
 
 stopped to think to realize her position. 
 But, he would see and understand. 
 
 And, yet, he might persist in his de 
 mands. In which event, she would refuse 
 again. It was plainly her duty to do so. 
 If it had not been for Tabor there was 
 something wrong about that man. She 
 did not like him. He was coiling and 
 slimy, like a snake. He purred more than 
 spoke. And his wife a fat little cat! 
 
 There was a tap at her door. It was 
 Mamman. 
 
 "I am feeling nervous, my dear. I 
 shall sleep with you tonight." 
 
 Isabelle was glad. For it was very still 
 in the great house; and she was lonely. 
 
 She clasped her mother in her arms. 
 
 How often had Mamman held her thus, 
 as a babe! Mamman had always been 
 so good ! She was soon asleep.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. 
 
 The notary Doret knew of no will; nor 
 did Mamman Labelle. Philippe must 
 have died intestate. 
 
 It would be six months before the af 
 fairs of the estate could be settled. Mrs. 
 Labelle remained in charge of the prop 
 erty by sanction of the court. The pro 
 cedure was of a purely formal nature. 
 
 There were stocks and bonds to the 
 value of twenty thousand dollars and a 
 bank balance of something like seven 
 thousand. As there were no incum- 
 brances on the farm, the outlook was one 
 of comfort for the declining years of the 
 widow. 
 
 It was with a feeling of keen disappoint 
 ment that David learned the facts from 
 his wife upon her return to Montreal ; for 
 she had avoided the subject in her letters 
 
 [263]
 
 264 The Golden Poppy 
 
 to him during the remainder of her stay 
 at the homestead. 
 
 "But, did your mother," he said, "fail 
 to make any mention whatever of us of 
 our share in the estate ?" 
 
 "No, not altogether, dear," replied Isa- 
 belle. "She said that, as soon as her 
 hands were freed, she would repay Pierre 
 the five thousand he had loaned her for 
 us. That, of course, will come out of my 
 share. Then, there is the other twenty- 
 eight hundred, which will also be charged 
 against me." 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 "Nothing more, David. I presume 
 there is nothing to be expected before the 
 estate is settled." 
 
 They were sitting in the library. She 
 rose and crossed over to the piano. He 
 stepped in front of her, his face livid. 
 
 "I wish to speak to you," he snapped. 
 "You shan't dismiss a subject in this 
 fashion when I am talking to you." 
 
 "Really," she rejoined, with admirable
 
 The Golden Poppy 265 
 
 composure, "I thought the subject was 
 ended." 
 
 She seated herself beside the reading 
 table and waited for him to speak. Her 
 slippered foot tapped the rug nervously. 
 Otherwise, she remained, outwardly, 
 calm. 
 
 He came over and stood before her, 
 his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "Is there to be no advance, pending the 
 settlement?" 
 
 "Not if I am to seek it, David." 
 
 "You are quite decided on that point?" 
 
 "Yes entirely so. You see, my dear, 
 mother has no idea that we could have 
 gone through the twenty-eight hundred 
 already. And she could hardly be ex 
 pected to know about your speculations. 
 So, naturally she thinks we are still pro 
 vided with at least a sufficient supply of 
 funds to carry us through the winter. 
 And I could not possibly bring myself to 
 tell her the truth." 
 
 "Then, you don't care whether I go to 
 Europe or not?"
 
 266 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "On the contrary," she smiled, " I shall 
 be very sorry to see you go. It will be so 
 lonely. But, you will be happy and be 
 come great. Is it not so? Therefore, I 
 shall not complain." 
 
 "But, how am I to go without funds? 
 There is my wardrobe a hundred differ 
 ent things to buy. And I must live in a 
 manner befitting my station. Rochette 
 will not offer me an advance. He might 
 fear to offend me." 
 
 "My dear, you have until May. Who 
 knows what may come to pass between 
 now and then? Let us not borrow 
 trouble. Perhaps Mamman will speak 
 about it when she comes to visit us next 
 month. Are you going out? I will 
 change my dress and go with you. There 
 is a new book I promised to send Mam- 
 
 man." 
 
 "I can't wait," he replied. "I have an 
 appointment." 
 
 A moment later, the door opened and 
 closed behind him. 
 
 She stood where she had risen from the
 
 The Golden Poppy 267 
 
 chair, amazed at the suddenness of his 
 decision, stung to the quick by the cold 
 brutality of his treatment. 
 
 She was beset again, in this dark hour, 
 by the thought that love would never live 
 within his heart; that he was of the shal 
 low clay that loves itself alone. 
 
 She drew a long, deep sigh, her eyes 
 far away in thought. 
 
 Life, love, happiness what was it all 
 about? Who might say? 
 
 A fleeting firefly in the night? The 
 mirage of a fevered brain? 
 
 Ah, she hoped not; yearningly she 
 hoped not. 
 
 Somewhere love lingered, alluring, red- 
 garlanded. She knew it by the throbbing 
 of her heart, by the hunger of her soul, 
 by the mad surging of the tide in her 
 veins. 
 
 She dressed and went out.
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. 
 
 It was soon noted in Lamartinette that 
 Nazaire had undergone a great change 
 since the taking off of his brother Phi 
 lippe. 
 
 He developed haughty mannerisms of 
 speech and bearing, which evoked humor 
 ous comment among the habitants. 
 
 They came to speak of him as "Mon 
 sieur Nazaire Labelle." 
 
 The wits and wags of the village strove 
 to outrival one another in their sallies 
 about him. 
 
 He would clear his throat before speak 
 ing and utter his words in a slow, senten 
 tious way. 
 
 His lumbering stride of yore gave way 
 to a stiff, labored strut. 
 
 On Sundays, he carried a cane to 
 church. 
 
 [268]
 
 The Golden Poppy 269 
 
 It was a great day in their life when 
 he and Philomene stalked up the main 
 aisle of the edifice, arm in arm, to the pew 
 of the Labelles, dressed in the garb of 
 their new station. 
 
 Philomene wore a dress of black silk 
 her dream of years. It was an elaborate 
 affair, with many flounces. 
 
 Nazaire looked very solemn in a black 
 Prince Albert, a scarlet geranium in his 
 boutonniere. His new shoes squeaked de 
 rision. His fat, soulless face was a deep 
 red. He was thankful when the organ 
 pealed the Kyrie, submerging him in 
 waves of mellow sound. 
 
 Mamiman Labelle had found a pretext 
 to remain at home. She was not feeling 
 well. She would see to the dinner. In 
 truth, she felt deep compassion for these 
 two. For, Mamman was very human; 
 and she had a noble heart. 
 
 Nazaire and Philomene excited her pity 
 now as they had never done in the days 
 of their poverty. She resented the spirit 
 of ridicule that bubbled about them, wher-
 
 270 The Golden Poppy 
 
 ever they went. Her soul rebelled against 
 the malice of the little minds who had 
 found in this pair a worthy object of at 
 tack. But, she was powerless, as well she 
 knew. For, any advice which she might 
 offer them would surely be misconstrued 
 by Nazaire and his wife. So, she re 
 mained discreetly silent, permitting the 
 future to shape its own course. 
 
 One day, when Nazaire was in Lamar- 
 tinette, he met the Cure St. Georges in 
 front of the parish-house. The priest was 
 in very good spirits. 
 
 "I have been waiting to have a chat 
 with you, Nazaire," he said. "Come into 
 the house. It is too cold to stand outside." 
 
 "Oui, Monsieur le Cure," blurted Na 
 zaire, his brain in a whirl of panic. What 
 did he want ? Did the Cure know ? Holy 
 Virgin ! What was it about ? 
 
 They went into the house together, the 
 priest leading the way. 
 
 Once, Nazaire was tempted to turn and 
 flee. 
 
 But, what would that avail him?
 
 The Golden Poppy 271 
 
 Nothing, if the Cure knew. 
 
 So, he followed in. 
 
 "You are shaking," said St. Georges, 
 when the door of the study had closed 
 behind them. "Are you ill?" 
 
 "I am cold," replied Nazaire, turning 
 to the fire, to avoid the enquiring gaze of 
 the priest. 
 
 "I shall fetch you a glass of wine," 
 spoke St. Georges. 
 
 He left the room and returned a mo 
 ment later with a glass and decanter. 
 
 "Drink, Nazaire," said the priest. 
 "Why, you tremble like a leaf ! What ails 
 you?" ' 
 
 Nazaire had gulped a glassful of the 
 wine and crumpled into an arm-chair be 
 fore the fireplace. He was sweating pro 
 fusely. 
 
 The priest drew a chair on the other 
 side of the hearth, facing Nazaire. 
 
 "You are perspiring. It will do you 
 good. Only, you must not be in a hurry 
 to go out. It might mean your death." 
 
 Nazaire started up. He half shrieked:
 
 272 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "Mon Dieu! What will you have 
 of me ? Why have you brought me here ? 
 Say it! I can't stand this sort of thing 
 much longer, I warn you. What is it, 
 I ask you ?" 
 
 "Nothing to make you carry on in this 
 fashion, I assure you, Nazaire. I merely 
 wished to know how you have been get 
 ting on of late; and if you are finding 
 yourself better pleased with life." 
 
 Nazaire gazed into the face of the 
 priest, a dull fire of suspicion in his eyes. 
 Slowly the bulky form relaxed in the arm 
 chair. He mopped his face and neck 
 thoughtfully for a space. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Cure," he said pres 
 ently. "The Bon Dieu seems very good 
 to me after all these years. I had a very 
 wicked brother, Monsieur le Cure. He 
 was a bad man." 
 
 "Your brother is dead, Nazaire. Judge 
 not. Leave judgment to Him who reads 
 our inmost thoughts, who sees our slight 
 est acts and who holds in His hands the
 
 
 The Golden Poppy 273 
 
 scales from which no man may ever hope 
 to escape." 
 
 "He sees all, you say? He knows our 
 thoughts? He reads what is in our 
 hearts ?" 
 
 "Yes, my son." 
 
 "My God!" exclaimed Nazaire, utterly 
 broken, "that is terrible !" 
 
 He sprang to his feet: 
 
 "Some day I will come back. But now, 
 I must go. I am choking for want of air. 
 But, I will be back. I will be back, Mon- 
 sier le Cure some day. There is some 
 thing I wish to tell you. But not now !" 
 
 He flung himself out of the house and 
 hurried off down the village street, as 
 though in deadly fear of pursuit. 
 
 From a window of his study, St. 
 Georges gazed after the fleeing form in 
 amazement. 
 
 "Who would have thought," the good 
 man mused aloud, "that a little wine 
 would have thus upset him !" 
 
 After a while, he lighted his pipe and 
 sat down to read.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY. 
 
 Some time elapsed. Nazaire did not go 
 back to the parish-house. On a number 
 of occasions he resolved to make a clean 
 breast of his connection with the death of 
 Philippe to the priest. But, each time he 
 had weakened as he neared the Cure's 
 abode; and quickly found business else 
 where. 
 
 Sullen and taciturn by nature, he now 
 grew profoundly morose. He fell into 
 long spells of despondency, shunning all 
 who would have converse with him and 
 holding to himself in the barns and 
 stables. 
 
 His customary journeys to the village 
 were abandoned. 
 
 He lost weight ; and the apoplectic flush 
 of his face paled to a pasty, putty-like cast. 
 
 He partook of little food, going through 
 
 [274]
 
 The Golden Poppy 275 
 
 the motions of eating like a thing pulled 
 by wires. 
 
 The Prince Albert hung, forgotten, on 
 its peg in the closet. He went back to 
 his former method of dress, much against 
 the protestations of Philomene, who was 
 at a loss to understand his strange behav 
 ior. He made frequent pilgrimages to 
 the spot by the roadside where he had 
 come upon Philippe and left him to die. 
 
 Here he would stand a long while, star 
 ing fixedly at the ground. 
 
 Then, slowly, brokenly, he would trudge 
 off again towards the home. 
 
 The habitants would say: 
 
 "He grieves for his brother Philippe!" 
 
 One night, he did not come in to sup 
 per with the others. 
 
 Ernestine put his meal in the oven to 
 keep warm against his return. 
 
 Late in the night Philomene awoke in 
 her bed to find that Nazaire was not lying 
 beside her. He had not returned. 
 
 She rose and dressed hastily.
 
 276 The Golden Poppy 
 
 His supper was still in the oven, where 
 Ernestine had placed it. 
 
 There was something wrong; else he 
 would be home. She lighted the lantern 
 and went out. It was biting cold. She 
 drew her cape snugly about her and 
 started across the yard towards the barn. 
 
 A silver crescent of moon looked down 
 peacefully upon the white-mantled earth. 
 Many stars were in the sky. She hurried 
 her steps, stung by a sense of fear and 
 foreboding. 
 
 The stables threw out a grateful 
 warmth as she pulled open the thick, 
 heavy door. The grinding of the horses' 
 teeth and the swish of the hay in the man 
 gers were welcome sounds to her ears. 
 Holding the lantern above her head, 
 she peered into the dimly lighted stalls. 
 Convinced that he was not here, she went 
 on. 
 
 He was not in the sheep-pens; nor in 
 the barns, where the hay and the grain 
 were stored.
 
 The Golden Poppy 277 
 
 Abandoning hope of finding Nazaire, 
 she turned to retrace her steps towards 
 the house. 
 
 As she went, a sudden thought struck 
 her: The carriage-house! She had not 
 tried it. 
 
 A moment later, she stood at the door, 
 her hand in the slot that served in lieu of 
 handle. 
 
 Here she paused, a sudden, unaccount 
 able fear gripping her senses. 
 
 The door was ajar. She pushed against 
 it timidly. 
 
 It swung in and struck against a 
 strange object, that was heavy and soft. 
 She could not see what it was. 
 
 Her head whirled in panic. 
 
 After a while, and with great effort, 
 she called out: 
 
 "Nazaire, where are you?" 
 
 The echo of her voice chilled her to the 
 marrow. 
 
 A window opened in the upper part of 
 the house.
 
 278 The Golden Poppy 
 
 In the square of yellow light, she dis 
 cerned the form of Madame Labelle. 
 
 "What is it, Philomene? What is the 
 matter?" asked Mamman. 
 
 Philomene shrilled back: 
 
 "Come quickly, I beg of you ! Awaken 
 the men! I fear something has hap 
 pened !" 
 
 "Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she 
 wailed aloud. 
 
 When the men reached the scene, 
 slightly in advance of Madame Labelle 
 and Ernestine, Philomene pointed to the 
 door, her face chalk-white in the lantern 
 light. 
 
 "In there," she said. "Something tells 
 me. I can feel it." 
 
 Dumoulin pushed back the door. 
 
 Then, he gasped and stepped back a 
 pace. 
 
 Bissonette caught Philomene in his 
 strong arms as she reeled in the snow. 
 
 Mamman and Ernestine clung to each 
 other in frozen horror.
 
 The Golden Poppy 279 
 
 At last, someone spoke. 
 It was the voice of Bissonette. 
 "Come !" he said hoarsely to the women. 
 And he hurried them away from the 
 thing that was hanging before them.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. 
 
 One sunny day in April Madame La- 
 belle drove to the village station with 
 Bissonette and boarded the train for 
 Montreal. 
 
 She arrived at the Bonaventure Station 
 about noon and rode to the Randon home 
 with Isabelle, who was overjoyed to have 
 her "Mumzie" with her. 
 
 Mamman was to remain with the Ran- 
 dons until David's departure, which would 
 be early in May. No further plans had 
 been made by the two women. 
 
 The young doctor greeted his mother- 
 in-law pleasantly, enjoining her to con 
 sider herself in her own home while here 
 with them. 
 
 After luncheon, during which he was 
 unusually vivacious, he took himself off, 
 explaining, in a casual way, that there 
 
 [280]
 
 The Golden Poppy 281 
 
 were numerous matters requiring his at 
 tention before the date of his sailing. 
 
 He puckered his brow in studious mood, 
 tracing a circle with his stick on the rug 
 at his feet. A moment later he was gone. 
 
 "David will, no doubt, require funds 
 for his undertaking, my dear," suggested 
 Mamman, when they were alone. "I 
 could advance him five thousand dollars 
 of your share in the estate. You might 
 speak to him about it. He may be in im 
 mediate need of money." 
 
 "I know that he is, Mamman. He men 
 tioned the matter some time ago. But, I 
 am thinking of you. Would it leave you 
 secure ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; there is some cash on hand. 
 And Pierre has refused to accept the re 
 turn of his loan at this time. I shall write 
 a check during the day, which you may 
 place on deposit in your bank, or endorse 
 over to David." 
 
 "I thank you, Mamman," rejoined Isa- 
 belle, visibly confused. 
 
 She lowered her eyes to the empty plate
 
 282 The Golden Poppy 
 
 before her, a deep flush suffusing her 
 cheeks. She was proud-spirited. These 
 repeated acceptances of loans and gratui 
 ties galled her, stung her to the point of 
 rebellion. She felt a grateful relief when 
 Antoinette entered the room to clear the 
 table. 
 
 "It will do very nicely for the present," 
 said David, that night, to Isabelle, as he 
 folded the check and put it in his pocket. 
 "But, of course, there is no telling what 
 our future needs may be. However," he 
 smiled, "we will cross that bridge when 
 we come to it. As a matter of fact, I had 
 expected a settlement of the estate. It 
 would have enabled us to see what our re 
 sources were and plan accordingly. But, 
 as I say, this will do for the present." 
 
 It was with great effort that Isabelle 
 repressed the leaping fires of her indigna 
 tion. But, in the end she triumphed over 
 the hot impulse and said, simply: 
 
 "I did not ask for it, David. It was my 
 mother who suggested the advance. I 
 would not have asked for it. And after
 
 The Gelden Poppy 283 
 
 this I shall accept no more from her. I 
 shall positively refuse to impoverish her, 
 or strip the homestead while my mother 
 lives." 
 
 He wheeled about from the mirror to 
 face her. There was a deadly glint in his 
 eyes and his fists clenched tightly. 
 
 She looked curiously into his face, as 
 though she might have discovered in the 
 distorted outline some new and hitherto 
 undreamed of touch. She waited for him 
 to speak. But, he said no word; and 
 turned back, presently, to the glass. 
 
 Shortly after, he went out, without 
 speaking. 
 
 "Was David pleased, my dear?" asked 
 Mamman, when he had gone. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mumzie dear," said Isabelle, 
 bravely. "He was delighted. Only, he 
 has a great deal on his mind and some 
 times overlooks the little amenities. He 
 takes life quite seriously," she laughed. 
 
 And Mamman laughed too. But the 
 veil was too thin for Madame Labelle. 
 She had seen too much of life to be de-
 
 284 The Golden Poppy 
 
 ceived by her daughter's brave attempt 
 to conceal the truth. It was plain to her 
 that Randon's demeanor at leaving could 
 have but one interpretation. He was dis 
 appointed. He had expected more. How 
 much had he received already? How long 
 would her resources last, if left to the 
 mercy of this foolish and conceited young 
 man? There would be no more funds 
 advanced ! 
 
 She felt a pang of pity for her child, 
 sitting there before her, smiling away the 
 truth. 
 
 Ah, she knew the narrow channels, the 
 shallow, selfish motives of men's minds. 
 
 But, she, too, had a woman's heart, a 
 woman's shrinking fear of brutal facts, of 
 hidden sores. And so, she smiled back 
 at Isabelle, albeit her heart was sad; and 
 nodded understanding.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. 
 
 The day of the sailing dawned, bright 
 and warm. The tender green of budding 
 leaves peeped shyly from the little brown 
 pods that still shielded off the cold of the 
 early spring nights. Birds flitted busily 
 among the trees, building their nests and 
 singing of their happiness. 
 
 David left home shortly after breakfast. 
 
 It was after four in the afternoon when 
 he returned. He appeared tired and worn 
 from the day's exertions. At dinner he 
 ate sparingly. 
 
 He spoke of the Rochettes, whom he 
 had seen during the day, of St. Julien, 
 who had done so much for him, of the 
 accommodations aboard the ship and the 
 transfer of his trunks and bags to the 
 dock. 
 
 [285]
 
 286 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Isabelle and Mamman followed him 
 closely, pressing him to eat, the while. 
 
 When he went into the bedroom, before 
 leaving, Isabelle came up to him, her arms 
 outstretched to embrace him. He took 
 her in his arms and kissed her on the 
 mouth. 
 
 Her form quivered in the embrace and 
 he thought he heard a low, suffused sob. 
 
 He pushed her back gently. 
 
 "No scene, my dear!" he said. "It is 
 only for a short time; and, think of the 
 prize! Come, let us go. It is getting 
 late. The Rochettes will be waiting." 
 
 He led her out of the room. Mamman 
 was in the library, dressed for the street. 
 She turned, smiling, to the young couple. 
 
 "The car is here," she announced. 
 
 David made hasty adieux to Antoinette 
 and led the way out of the house. He was 
 visibly nervous. Arriving at the dock, 
 he assisted the two women up the gang 
 plank to the deck of the ship. 
 
 The Rochettes were there, near the 
 guard-rail, surrounded by a party of
 
 The Golden Poppy 287 
 
 friends and relatives. They greeted the 
 Randons warmly and chatted about the 
 voyage and the chances for a pleasant 
 passage. 
 
 The deck was crowded with closely 
 packed groups, through which stewards 
 and deck-hands wormed laboriously, in an 
 endeavor to perform their work. From 
 somewhere aloft, it might have been the 
 bridge, a whistle shrilled above the tumult 
 of the deck. 
 
 Soon, an officer passed from group to 
 group, announcing that all those not tak 
 ing passage must leave the ship. 
 
 A long stream of people ribboned down 
 the gangplank, slowly. 
 
 The throng on the main deck thinned to 
 a few clinging knots in the semi-darkness. 
 
 Mrs. Rochette was laughing as she 
 seized Isabelle by the hand. 
 
 "We shall bring him back safe and 
 sound," she assured, in a tone which was 
 meant to encourage. 
 
 "Yes, Madame, safe and sound," echoed 
 Rochette himself.
 
 288 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Another blast from the whistle warned 
 them. 
 
 It was short and sharp and carried a 
 tone of finality. 
 
 Isabelle turned to David. 
 
 She felt a choking sensation in her 
 throat. 
 
 She wished to cry out, to rebel, to go 
 with him over the bounding sea, any 
 where, to the end of the way. 
 
 Then she felt his lips upon her own, in 
 a swift, fleeting kiss, that burned with 
 very bitterness. 
 
 A moment later he was gone. 
 
 "Come, dear child," soothed the voice of 
 Mamman. 
 
 They turned to the gang-plank and fol 
 lowed the long cortege.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. 
 
 The house seemed very large and very 
 empty, now, to Isabelle. 
 
 The going of David left a void in her 
 life, which, do what she would, she might 
 not fill. 
 
 And yet, a voice in her heart told her 
 that her love for him was a wasted gift, 
 a flame to whose exquisite radiance he 
 must stumble on blind and cold. She, her 
 self, marveled at the clinging quality, the 
 vine-like tenderness of her devotion. The 
 home took on a dungeon gloom. The city 
 with its maddened throngs, whirled and 
 smoked and tossed before her like some 
 horrible monster in pain. 
 
 She longed to flee, to be away from the 
 belching swirl; to visit scenes of smiling 
 peace ; to roam the meadows and the wild- 
 wood and hear the tinkle of soft bells at 
 
 [289]
 
 290 The Golden Poppy 
 
 eventide; to kiss the wild flowers, wet 
 with dew; to feel the thrall of exultation 
 in the throated paean of field and forest. 
 
 A great yearning came upon her for the 
 scenes of her childhood. 
 
 Oh, to be a care-free child again and 
 hear the bobolinks in springtime ! 
 
 One day she made decision. She would 
 go back with her mother to Lamartinette. 
 Mamman agreed gladly to the plan. Isa- 
 belle was not only her child; but, a de 
 lightful companion as well. Antoinette 
 would remain in charge of the home. 
 
 In the valley of the Richelieu the white 
 and coral of apple bloom lay in gorgeous 
 mantles over the rolling orchards. 
 
 They arrived after night had fallen. 
 The soft, warm night of budding summer. 
 The countryside lay bathed in moonlight. 
 
 The air was laden with the breath of 
 many flowers that banked the ditches 
 along the winding road.
 
 The Golden Poppy 291 
 
 Clear and shrill, the piping of frogs 
 rose in a riotous medley of silver song. 
 Great, scattering constellations stretched 
 across the sombre vault of sky, as though 
 some mighty sower had gone forth and 
 showered the azure field with glittering 
 crumbs of gold. 
 
 The young leaves rustled in the croon 
 ing breeze. In the dimness were the forms 
 of cattle, browsing. 
 
 Isabelle thrilled with a joy she had not 
 known before. 
 
 The homestead rose in silent majesty to 
 greet her, its proud outline alight beneath 
 the moon. 
 
 A door went wide and Ernestine came 
 out, hastening across the yard to meet 
 them. 
 
 "Home!" said Isabelle, tears welling in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, home, cherie," echoed her moth 
 er's voice. 
 
 Through the window, as they neared 
 the house, they glimpsed the bending 
 form of Philomene, silhouetted against
 
 292 The Golden Poppy 
 
 the kitchen wall, as she went about her 
 work at the stove. The widow of Nazaire 
 greeted the returning women with a fleet 
 ing smile and a brief "bon jour," and pro 
 ceeded to lay the dishes for the evening 
 meal, which had been delayed against 
 their coming. 
 
 When they had eaten, Isabelle retired 
 to her room. The windows were open. 
 The white curtains, blown by the warm 
 wind, floated gracefully in the air. From 
 below came the glad, insistent chorus of 
 katydids. Fire-flies spangled the grasses 
 like twinkling stars. 
 
 Isabelle lighted the lamp and drew a 
 chair to the window. 
 
 She felt strangely perturbed. And yet, 
 she was face to face with a great happi 
 ness. 
 
 If she had but known in time to tell him 
 before his going, perhaps he would not 
 have been so cold, so indifferent. Perhaps 
 it would have drawn to the surface hid 
 den, slumbering fires within him. Per 
 haps the promise of his parenthood would
 
 The Golden Poppy 293 
 
 have softened the strange mettle of his 
 heart. 
 
 If only she could have looked into his 
 eyes and heard him say that he was glad! 
 He had gone, not knowing, not suspect 
 ing; and she would bear, alone, the an 
 guish and the pain. 
 
 But, oh, she did not quell; nor shrink 
 from the ordeal. Gladly she would bear 
 the yoke. With eager hope she would 
 wait the hour when she might clasp in 
 fond embrace love's trusting messenger. 
 
 Her thoughts took wing. What would 
 David say? Ah, well she knew. He 
 would rejoice. For, men were proud of 
 fatherhood. He might regret that he had 
 gone without her and wish to have her 
 with him, now. Her face clouded in 
 thought. She must do nothing that would 
 disturb his plans. But, he must know. 
 He had a right to know. She must not 
 rob him of the joy that would be his. She 
 had received no letter from him since he 
 had gone. But, she would not wait to 
 hear from David. She knew his address
 
 294 The Golden Poppy 
 
 in Vienna the Allgemeine Krankenhaus. 
 He had told her. 
 
 It might take too long to wait. She 
 would write and tell him the glad tidings. 
 Mamman did not know. Nobody knew. 
 She would write him first and then the 
 world might know ! 
 
 So, she sat in the lamp light and poured 
 out the secret of her heart ; poured out the 
 love that burned like a flame in her breast ; 
 poured out her hopes and glad yearnings ; 
 but said not a word of her fears. 
 
 She rose early on the morrow and drove 
 to Lamartinette, not deigning to entrust 
 the mailing of the letter to other hands. 
 
 She crossed the bridge to St. John's and 
 made a few purchases in the stores. 
 
 It was a bright, warm day and the 
 bloom-scented air hung heavy in languor 
 ous waves. 
 
 She felt keenly alive to the spirit of the 
 wanton Spring, that recked not of care or 
 sorrow and lived her fleeting days in a 
 song-laden bower. 
 
 White sails flecked the deep blue of the
 
 The Golden Poppy 295 
 
 river, like the milky wings of great hover 
 ing butterflies. Children shouted at play 
 along the banks. 
 
 Habitants, gravely polite, drove by, 
 bowing to Isabelle with a "bon jour, 
 Madame." 
 
 A wonderful serenity lay upon the 
 scene. 
 
 The soothing mysticism of the earth 
 lulled her senses to the sweet contentment 
 of a trusting child. 
 
 She drove by the college on her way to 
 the homestead; but the grounds were de 
 serted and Pierre was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 She did not alight; but went on, at a 
 faster gait, past the outer fringe of dwell 
 ings, into the rolling country. 
 
 There was much to be done, she knew. 
 
 A great task lay ahead. A long and 
 arduous road. But, oh, the joy that 
 would be hers in the end ! The wild rap 
 ture, the ecstasy of motherhood ! 
 
 In the afternoon, she sent word to 
 Pierre that she was home, by Dumonlin, 
 who was going to the village.
 
 296 The Golden Poppy 
 
 A few days later Pierre paid a short 
 visit to the homestead. 
 
 Isabelle noted a great change in the 
 friend of her childhood. 
 
 He was still the Pierre of the old days, 
 quiet and kind and thoughtful of others. 
 
 But, it seemed to her that the sterner 
 qualities of the man had undergone a re 
 fining process, that was not unlike the 
 tempering of steel for high purpose. 
 
 The hands were now white and free of 
 the noble disfigurements wrought by the 
 plough. The stoop in the shoulders had 
 given way to a straight, almost heroic 
 poise. The features of the man had taken 
 on an imprint of repression and self-con 
 trol, which added virile force to the face. 
 The long, awkward stride of the farm- 
 lad had changed to an easy, balanced walk, 
 that had rhythm and grace. 
 
 He appeared quite unconscious of the 
 transformation ; and was perfectly at ease 
 amid his surroundings. 
 
 He laughed and chatted pleasantly. No, 
 he had not yet taken his vows. He was
 
 The Golden Poppy 297 
 
 very proud of his little men; and liked to 
 teach. He was devoting much of his 
 spare time to reading. 
 
 Mamman served a light lunch; and 
 when they had eaten, they walked out into 
 the garden where the flowers were. 
 
 It was all very peaceful and home-like. 
 
 Then, it seemed very soon, he an 
 nounced that he must be going back to the 
 college. 
 
 And when he had left, a feeling of lone 
 liness crept into the heart of Isabelle. A 
 feeling of sadness and sorrow, as though 
 some one whom she loved very dearly had 
 gone to return no more. With great ef 
 fort she fought back the waves of regret 
 that rose, clamoring loudly, in her breast. 
 
 No, no, not that, not that! She would 
 be happy yet. But a little while and all 
 would be well. Three years. He had said 
 that three years would not be long flitting 
 by. And when he came, things would be 
 different. He would be established. He 
 would not be worried by the little needs 
 that wore and harried one's soul. Yes,
 
 298 The Golden Poppy 
 
 that was it he had been worried so! 
 But, all that would be changed, when he 
 came home again. The letter he had by 
 this time received her good news, their 
 good news. She would count the days 
 until his answer came flying across the 
 sea to her, like a little bird, to nestle in her 
 breast. Oh, yes, David loved her, in his 
 way. He could not show his love. There 
 were such people. Mamman had told 
 her so. 
 
 But Pierre ah, how Pierre had 
 changed ! 
 
 The thought flashed in upon her: what 
 if he had so appeared to her before she 
 married David what if they were both 
 free now? 
 
 Frightened at this mere suggestion of 
 disloyalty, she strove to shut it out and 
 bring her mind to dwell on other things. 
 
 But, Pierre had suddenly become a pow 
 erful magnet to her thoughts and would 
 not be denied her contemplation. 
 
 She beheld him as the little barefoot 
 lad, roaming the fields and the woodland,
 
 The Golden Poppy 299 
 
 or, standing on the edge of the scolding 
 brook, his thoughtful eyes upon the speed 
 ing stream. 
 
 She saw him plucking wild flowers in 
 the meadow wild flowers for her. 
 
 And then, the cruel, widening gap of 
 years, while she was away at convent ; and 
 the ensuing cold reserve, instilled and 
 fostered by straight-laced misconceptions 
 of the things worth while. 
 
 She saw, with a shudder of pain, the 
 wounded, broken look in the proud eyes, 
 as he entered her room, that day in June, 
 and found her standing in her wedding 
 gown the bride of another. 
 
 And as she had gone to the arms of that 
 other one, he had fled, as from a pesti 
 lence, the golden setting of his boyhood, 
 to ponder on the ashes of his hopes. 
 
 It was a tragic, filmy network, unreal 
 as the texture of a dream or the weaving 
 of a tale that is told. 
 
 She saw him now, the outer husk 
 thrown off, a man revealed in his strong 
 attributes.
 
 300 The Golden Poppy 
 
 Like some tall oak, he towered above, 
 sturdy and true and fearless of the storm. 
 
 And she had made her choice. She had 
 chosen the other 
 
 Oh, no, this was wrong ! She must not 
 dwell upon the past. She had not meant 
 to do so. But the thoughts they flooded 
 the very gateway of her soul. They beat, 
 like a maddened surf, at the walls of her 
 woman's heart. Oh, God, might she not 
 forget? Might she not put down the bars 
 and call the past the past ? 
 
 A-flutter with haunting fear, she fled 
 to her mother's room, and, like a fright 
 ened child that awakes from dreams of 
 evil, nestled in those arms that were ever 
 waiting.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. 
 
 The days chained into weeks. Isabella 
 watched the arrivals of the steamships, 
 listed in the newspapers, which she re 
 ceived from Montreal. 
 
 One day, while scanning the news col 
 umns, she came upon an item which told 
 briefly of the financial activities of one 
 Waldon Tabor, "who had been swindling 
 gullible young men of means," in the guise 
 of a stock broker. 
 
 A warrant had been issued for the ar 
 rest of the fellow. But "the bird had 
 flown, together with the woman supposed 
 to be his wife." 
 
 A wave of resentment surged within 
 her. This common thief had been per 
 mitted to fleece her people ! 
 
 She clipped the item, to enclose it in her 
 next letter to David. 
 
 [301]
 
 302 The Golden Poppy 
 
 She grew weary and heart-sick with 
 disappointment. 
 
 Then, one evening, Regnault, the old 
 postmaster, smiled and winked an eye 
 over his gold-rimmed glasses and handed 
 her a large, square envelope bearing the 
 Austrian stamp. 
 
 She was at once in a flurry of excite 
 ment. Her first impulse was to open the 
 letter and read it on the spot. 
 
 But, she thought better of it and, hur 
 rying out of the dingy little place to the 
 waiting car, sped down the main street of 
 the village and over the highway that led 
 to the homestead. 
 
 The letter was written on thin, crack 
 ling paper which was ruled off in little 
 blue squares. There were several sheets 
 of the welcome message. 
 
 The greater part of the letter was given 
 over to the narrative of his voyage, to the 
 Rochettes, to Vienna, to the clinics in the 
 Austrian capital and his ambition to re 
 turn to Canada a worthy contender for 
 the laurels of greatness in his profession.
 
 The Golden Poppy 303 
 
 It was towards the end of the missive 
 that she came upon the words that struck 
 her cold and sick with shame and indigna 
 tion. 
 
 It was with surprise and deep regret 
 that he had learned of her unfortunate 
 condition. 
 
 Certainly she must understand that this 
 was no time for them to have children. 
 
 It would have been time enough later 
 on in life. 
 
 But, now! 
 
 Had they not sufficient responsibility, 
 without flying in the face of fate and vol 
 unteering to weight themselves down 
 with this, the heaviest burden of all? 
 
 She must have failed to take proper 
 care of herself. Else this would not have 
 happened. 
 
 It would be well for her to see a spe 
 cialist in obstetrics. 
 
 It might not be too late. 
 
 Something, perhaps, could be done. 
 
 He hoped so. 
 
 For, this was not his conception of mar-
 
 304 The Golden Poppy 
 
 ried life to undertake at the outset, the 
 rearing of children. 
 
 He would anxiously await news from 
 her on this point. 
 
 The letter closed abruptly, as though 
 the writer had suddenly become aware 
 that he was a very busy man. 
 
 Isabelle was seated on the veranda, as 
 she read the letter. 
 
 She groped her way through the clos 
 ing paragraphs, dazed by the brutal 
 words. 
 
 Then, she had been, all this time since 
 her marriage, no more in his eyes, in his 
 life, than a mere physical convenience, a 
 purveyor of gratification to his passion! 
 A shield to his respectability. To his 
 social status. 
 
 It was plain that he did not love her. 
 He had never loved her. He was incapa 
 ble of love. Utterly, hopelessly so. 
 
 Mamman was sitting beside her, in 
 pleasurable anticipation of good news. 
 
 She was not slow to note the changed 
 expression on her daughter's face, the
 
 The Golden Poppy 305 
 
 trembling of her hands, the determined 
 self-repression in her lips. 
 
 The two were silent for a while. 
 
 Presently, Isabelle looked at the older 
 woman, with tear-dimmed eyes ; and said : 
 
 "He is well, Mamman. But he " 
 
 Her voice broke. She could say no 
 more. She thrust the letter into her 
 mother's lap and fled, in utter confusion, 
 to her room.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. 
 
 It was not until late in August that Isa- 
 bclle wrote her answer to David's letter. 
 
 Not that she had wanted in decision as 
 to what course to follow. But, she was 
 fearful of the injustice that might come 
 of haste. 
 
 Too, there was the welfare of the little 
 one to consider. 
 
 It was a leap in the dark, she knew well. 
 But, she could see no alternative. 
 
 He had outraged her most sacred ideal. 
 He had trampled her love with ruthless 
 cruelty, suggesting, in its place, a make 
 shift union of convenience, which in her 
 sight, was as revolting as it was un 
 natural. 
 
 She had struggled with the problem 
 many times, always to the same conclu 
 sion. 
 
 [306]
 
 The Golden Poppy 307 
 
 He had killed her love ! 
 
 Nevermore could he be what he had 
 been to her. 
 
 Convinced of this, she was too honest 
 with herself and with him to continue a 
 relation which had become a mere sanc 
 tioned form of intercourse; a license, ut 
 terly repugnant to her, to live as man and 
 wife. 
 
 And when, after many days, she wrote 
 to David, it was with the serenity and 
 kindness that come of bitter sorrow long 
 repressed. 
 
 There was a preamble, in which she re 
 ferred to the receipt of his letter, to the 
 home in Montreal, and Antoinette. 
 
 She would defray all the expenses until 
 he found himself in a position to do so. 
 
 Then, she came to the subject that had 
 weighed so heavily upon her: 
 
 "And now/' she said, "I am going to 
 bid adieu to all I held most dear. For you 
 and I have come to the parting of the 
 ways. I cannot bring myself to discuss, 
 in detail, your views as expressed in your
 
 308 The Golden Poppy 
 
 letter on the subject of what you termed 
 my unfortunate condition. It will suffice 
 for me to say that I disagree with you on 
 every point. I hold that it is not for you 
 or for me to say whether children should 
 be born as a result of our union. I am 
 aware that many hold a different view. 
 But, they are, to my way of thinking, de 
 luded, misguided souls, who are blind to 
 the higher, nobler joys and the duties of 
 wedlock. To ask one's wife to consent to 
 any such arrangement as you suggest is, 
 whether she realizes it or not, an insult to 
 her womanhood and an admission, on the 
 part of the man, that his love, if such it 
 may be termed, is of a base and unworthy 
 sort. 
 
 "You have misunderstood me, David. 
 
 "You have never understood me. 
 
 "If you had had the merest inkling of 
 my nature, you would not have dared to 
 make the odious suggestion that I refuse 
 to bear to the end the burden that has 
 come to you and to me as a result of our 
 union.
 
 The Golden Poppy 309 
 
 "I shall go the allotted time, alone, but 
 strong in the belief that in our little one 
 I shall find, some day, the love that you 
 denied me. 
 
 "Do not think I write these lines in 
 haste or anger. 
 
 "Words would fail me utterly, were I to 
 try to picture the anguish of heart, the 
 cruel goading of despair that I have 
 known. 
 
 "It is best for you and me, best for the 
 little one, that we two part. 
 
 "And my decision is irrevocable as is 
 death itself. 
 
 "For, my love is dead. 
 
 "Oh, David, David, had you but 
 granted me the merest crumbs of kind 
 ness, crumbs such as the little sparrows 
 feed on, I would have gathered them 
 eagerly, jealously to my starving breast 
 and showered my burning love upon you 
 in return. 
 
 "But, now, all that is gone, withered 
 and dead. 
 
 "You will be great.
 
 310 The Golden Poppy 
 
 "It is my fondest prayer that the world 
 may crown you with its laurels. 
 
 "But, even then in the proudest mo 
 ments of achievement, will you be happy? 
 
 "Can one surround one's heart with 
 stone and know the pulse of gladness, the 
 great, expansive joy of love? 
 
 "I would rather hear the cooing of the 
 little one that is to come than the mad 
 dened plaudits of a fickle throng. 
 
 "Farewell! Since you have chosen to 
 seek glory to the exclusion of all else, may 
 glory wait upon you! David, farewell!" 
 
 She sealed the letter and handed it to 
 Bissonette, who was going to the village. 
 
 Then, she picked up an infant's slip on 
 the sewing table and studied the pattern 
 of a little flower that was stamped in blue 
 on the filmy fabric.
 
 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. 
 
 Spring smiled again in the valley of the 
 Richelieu, and the breath of apple bloom 
 lay heavy in the air. 
 
 Pierre had come to the great decision 
 and sealed it with his vows. 
 
 And now, he was going forth into the 
 great Northwest, to sow the seeds of 
 knowledge and of fortitude. 
 
 Blessed soil, that would receive his 
 ministrations ! 
 
 The hour of another parting had rung 
 in the life of Isabelle. 
 
 She stood in the gabled window and 
 watched the black, receding form, as 
 slowly he climbed the ascent in the road 
 that led to the village and to the world 
 beyond. 
 
 Once, her heart leaped with blind hope, 
 when Pierre, coming to the crest of the 
 
 [311]
 
 312 The Golden Poppy 
 
 knoll, halted and looked back over the 
 smiling valley. 
 
 A moment later he had disappeared. 
 
 Into her heart stole the sadness of a 
 great regret and an echo of the golden 
 days now gone murmured, chiding, of the 
 love that might have been. 
 
 Bravely she fought back the welling 
 tears. 
 
 With a weary sigh she turned from the 
 purpling vista to the babe in the cradle 
 beside her. 
 
 And at sight of this her son, she thrilled 
 with the gladness of hope and the promise 
 of fulfillment. 
 
 Slowly the shadows deepened in the 
 valley. 
 
 The stars sallied forth in a ballet of 
 shimmering gold. 
 
 A round, red moon sat in state on the 
 peak of a distant spur. 
 
 The tinkle of a sheep-bell floated anon 
 over the fields. 
 
 Through the stilly watches of the night
 
 The Golden Poppy 313 
 
 she sat in the gabled window, keeping 
 vigil with the stars. 
 
 Ah, the mystery of night and of life! 
 The mystery of love ! The enigma of her 
 own poor heart ! 
 
 One by one the watchers of the sky 
 wearied and sank to rest. 
 
 A chill wind rushed, scolding, from the 
 valley. 
 
 Far and near cocks shrilled the matin 
 call. 
 
 A silvered veil of dawn was unfolding 
 in the east, when she roused from her 
 dreaming and lowered the yellow flame of 
 the lamp. 
 
 THE END.
 
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