Up a Road Slowly by Irene Hunt

that I was there. He was interested that I had read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina , and that I had tried to read Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment , but hadn’t been able to get much out of it. He smiled a little at that admission.
    â€œI think Dostoyevsky is pretty heavy fare for a young lady of your age,” he said. “Aren’t you pushing her a little, Cordelia?”
    â€œI haven’t pushed her at all, Jonathan,” Aunt Cordelia answered, “but I don’t forbid her to browse either. She soon knows when she is beyond her depth.”
    â€œShe pushed me, Julie; she really pushed me without mercy. And I’ve loved her for it—all these many years,” he said quietly, and he was no longer smiling.
    Aunt Cordelia’s face was flushed, but she turned pleasantly to Mrs. Eltwing. “I know that you are a composer and a musician, Mrs. Eltwing. Do you feel like playing for us this afternoon? We’ve just had the piano tuned; I think you’ll find it in good condition.”
    Mrs. Eltwing just smiled at Aunt Cordelia without answering until her husband bent down to her again. “Cordelia has asked if you will play for us, Katy. Do you feel up to it?”
    She jumped eagerly to her feet as if he had interpreted a pleasant message in some foreign tongue. “Oh, yes, I’ll play, Jonathan. Of course. Of course.”
    She walked lightly over to the piano bench, seated herself, and pushed back the cuffs of her velvet suit. It was then that I noticed the ruffle that extended from the sleeve of her blouse beyond the velvet cuff. It was torn and hung loosely; it was also a little soiled. A sad sign of her illness, I thought. No normal woman having the taste to groom herself so carefully in all other details would have overlooked that dangling ruffle.
    In another minute, though, I had forgotten everything about me as Mrs. Eltwing poised her hands above the keys and then struck them as if in a wild fury. Waves of music crashed throughout the rooms of the old house, mountains began to shake and comets to fall under her hands while I could imagine tidal waves rolling in and the wind uprooting trees and sending ships spinning to the bottom of the sea. Then as my heart seemed almost ready to burst with the tumult, her music suddenly subsided and the sky became bright; the storm was over. The melody had become quiet, but it was not happy; it seemed to cry as if some lonely soul walked over the earth and mourned the ravages that Nature had committed.
    There was something eerie about Mrs. Eltwing as she played. Her frail body swayed a little with the music, her eyes that had looked so blue as she smiled at us in greeting were now quite black and brilliant with light. She looked strange, and I felt for a moment that I would be afraid to be alone with her.
    Then it was over, and Mrs. Eltwing dropped her hands into her lap. I was too moved to applaud, but from the doorway between the library and living room came a cry of “Bravo! Bravo!” and standing there was Uncle Haskell, slender and graceful, clapping his hands and smiling at Mrs. Eltwing.
    I had never seen him look so handsome or so outlandishly affected. He was wearing the black velvet smoking jacket which he kept folded in layers of tissue paper, and under that, a white silk shirt. His skin was clear and firm, and his thick blond hair waved back from a brow unmarked by either time or anxiety. He looked a little like a foolish mannikin suddenly animated; he also looked a little like a Greek god. I couldn’t quite decide which description best fitted him.
    Mrs. Eltwing stood up at the sound of his cheering, and she gave a little gasp as she looked at him. She reminded me of a small girl who has suddenly discovered an unbelievably beautiful toy; her eyes never left him as he came forward, took her hand lightly, and kissed it.
    â€œThank you for that music, dear Mrs. Eltwing, thank you a million times. You have given