Two Solitudes Read Free Page A

burned on a huge, smoke-blackened stone hearth. As they talked they turned now and then to look out the windows to the alley of Lombardy poplars that ran straight as an avenue from the gallery to the river road, and beyond to the late afternoon sun glinting on the Saint Lawrence.
    Although the three men were outwardly unconscious of the differences between them, they were so unlike in appearance as well as in manners that they might have come from three distinct countries and cultures. Athanase Tallard was tall and finely drawn. His aristocratic features were as brown as a walnut shell, the dark pigments of the skin heightened by a large white moustache. His movements were quick with an abundance of nervous vitality, and there was distinction in the way he gestured with his long hands.
    Beside him stood Huntly McQueen, whose name was well known in the financial circles of Montreal. Beyond the fact that he had been born obscurely somewhere in Ontario, that he was a bachelor, that he was a great churchgoer, and that he wasrapidly becoming one of the richest men in Canada, little was known of his personal affairs. He was scarcely more than forty, but his manner and his habit of dress made him seem nearly as old as his host. Until today he had known Tallard only casually, though they had met fairly often in Ottawa.
    John Yardley, the third man, was a retired sea captain from Nova Scotia. He was about the same age as Tallard, nearly sixty, and he was equally tall. Behind rimless glasses his eyes were pale blue and they twinkled easily. He was lean and muscular, his face showed the marks of years of sunburn and windburn, his greying hair was cropped close to his skull, and his ears stuck out like fans on either side of his head. An artificial leg made him limp heavily, but otherwise his movements suggested the relaxed awareness of a man who has lived most of his life in the open, and some of it close to danger. It was Yardley who had wanted to inspect the Dansereau farm. Through his daughter, who had married into one of the old families in Montreal and had been living there many years, he had met McQueen, and McQueen had arranged this meeting with Tallard.
    Seeing that his guests were at ease, Athanase excused himself. He explained that his wife was in bed with grippe and he must see how she was. It was a great pity, her illness, for visitors were rare in Saint-Marc and she would have enjoyed meeting them. He promised to return shortly.
    When they were alone, Yardley let his eyes wander over the room. “This must be one of the oldest houses in Canada,” he said. “You know Quebec pretty well. How old would you say it was?”
    â€œI can tell you precisely,” McQueen said. “It was built by the first member of the family who came to Canada in 1672. When Tallard comes back you might compliment him on the place. The French are proud as Lucifer about houses like this.”
    Yardley let a kind of smile play over his face and changed the subject. “Too bad Mrs. Tallard’s sick. I’d like to meet her, specially if I’m going to be her neighbour.”
    â€œSurely you haven’t made up your mind already!”
    â€œWhy not? I know what I want, and I think I’ve found it. I guess that’s all there is to it.”
    McQueen studied his friend with an expression of slow calculation. Although his face was as round as a full moon, there was a curious ruggedness about his features. His nose was dominant and his mouth firmly set, his eyes wide and intelligent. This expression of force did not extend to his ponderously soft body. As he crossed to the window he walked with a padding movement, setting his feet down cautiously with each step.
    â€œI wouldn’t do anything hasty,” he said, looking out and peering from side to side. “There’s no doubt about it, haste never pays.”
    â€œThat’s what everybody’s been saying to me ever since I came to Montreal.”