Red Peppers Patients | Page 9

its starved
restraint. Then he fell upon the food, and even though he was plainly
ravenous he ate as manneredly as any gentleman. Only by the way he
finished each tiniest crumb could they know his extremity.
"By Jove, that beats eating it myself, if I were hungry as a faster on the
third day!" Burns exclaimed, as he sat turned away from the beneficiary,
his eyes apparently upon the fire. Ellen, from behind the boy, smiled at
her husband, noting how completely his air of fatigue had fallen from
him. Often before she had observed how any call upon R.P. Burns's
sympathies rode down his own need of commiseration.
"Hungarian, I think, don't you?" Burns remarked, as the meal was
finished, and the youth rose to bow his thanks once more. This time
there was a response. He nodded violently, smiling and throwing out
his hands.
"Ungahree!" he said, and smiled and nodded again, and said again,
"Ungahree!"
"He knows that word all right," said Burns, smiling back. "It's a land of
musicians. The fiddle's a good one, I'll wager."

He glanced at it as he spoke, and the boy leaped for it, pressing it to his
breast. He began to tune it.
"He thinks we want to be paid for his supper," Ellen exclaimed. "Can't
you make him understand we should like him to rest first?"
"I'd only convey to him the idea that we didn't want to hear him play,
which would be a pity, for we do. If he's the musician he looks, by
those eyes and that mouth, we'll be more than paid. Go ahead,
Hungary--it'll make you happier than anything we could do for you."
Clearly it would. Burns carried out the tray, and when he returned his
guest was standing upon the hearth rug facing Ellen, his bow uplifted.
He waited till Burns had thrown himself down on the couch again in a
sitting posture, both arms stretched along the back. Then he made his
graceful obeisance again, and drew the bow very slowly and softly over
the first string. And, at the very first note, the two who were watching
him knew what was to come. It was in every line of him, that promise.
It might have been his gratitude that he was voicing, so touching were
the strains that followed that first note. The air was unfamiliar, but it
sounded like a folk song of his own country, and he put into it all the
poignant, peculiar melody of such a song. His tones were exquisite,
with the sure touch of the trained violinist inspired and supported by
the emotional understanding of the genuine musician.
When he had finished he stood looking downward for a moment, then
as Burns said "Bravo!" he smiled as if he understood the word, and
lifted his instrument again to his shoulder. This time his bow descended
upon the strings with a full note of triumph, and he burst into the
brilliant performance of a great masterpiece, playing with a spirit and
dash which seemed to transform him. Often his lips parted to show his
white teeth, often he swung his whole body into the rhythm of his
music, until he seemed a very part of the splendid harmonies he made.
His thin cheeks flushed, his hollow eyes grew bright, he smiled, he
frowned, he shook his slender shoulders, he even took a stride to right
or left as he played on, as if the passion of his performance would not
let him rest.

His listeners watched him with sympathetic and comprehending
interest. Warmed and fed, his Latin nature leaping up from its deep
depression to the exaltation of the hour, the appeal he made to them
was intensely pathetic. Burns, even more ardently than his wife,
responded to the appeal. He no longer lounged among the pillows of
the broad couch; he sat erect, his eyes intent, his lips relaxed, his cares
forgot. He was a lover of music, as are many men of his profession, and
he was more than ordinarily susceptible to its influences. He drank in
the tones of the master, voiced by this devoted interpreter, like wine,
and like wine they brought the colour to his face also, and the light to
his eyes.
"Jove!" he murmured, as the last note died away, "he's a wonder. He
must be older than he looks. How he loves it! He's forgotten that he
doesn't know where he's to sleep to-night--but, by all that's fair, we
know, eh?"
Ellen smiled, with a look of assent. Her own heart was warmly touched.
There was a small bedroom upstairs, plainly but comfortably furnished,
which was often used for impecunious patients who needed to remain
under observation for a day or two. It was at the service of