"I got a favor to ask of you, sir," Martha told him without reserve.
"Let's hear it."
"Somethin' 's happened out to ol' lady Crewe's. Miss Katherine, she come
to me just now, all upset an' wild-like. Las' night, when I see the
little Madam, she showed as plain as could be, she's not long for this
world, an' by now--what with the shock she's got--she's prob'ly goin'
fast. Will you telefoam Dr. Ballard, an' ask'm to come to her right
off? He told me, before he left, if any of you folks, here, or _her'd_
reely need'm, I was to let'm know, an' he'd come, if it took a leg."
"But, Martha," objected Mr. Frank, "that's the point. If we _really
need_ him. Are you sure the case is so urgent? Recollect, Dr. Ballard
is a busy man. His time is worth more than money. Much more. There
isn't one chance in a thousand, that he could leave to come here, on the
spur of the moment, even if I asked him."
"He'd come," said Martha confidently.
"And I don't want to ask him--I'd have no right to do it, unless the
need is extreme. Is the need extreme? Are you sure of it?"
Martha hesitated but a moment. "Yes, sir. I'm sure," she answered.
"Then I understand you to say that I am to call up Dr. Ballard. I am to
tell him that Madam Crewe is in a critical condition. I am to ask him
to come on at once. It is a matter of life or death. That is the
message, Martha?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're positive? Life or death?"
"Life--_an'_ death," repeated Martha distinctly.
"Then call up Central, and ask for Long Distance. When you get it, give
me the wire. Shall you wait for the answer?"
"No, sir. I'm goin' straight to the little ol' lady's now. She needs
me, an'--I _know_ the doctor'll come."
*CHAPTER XVII*
The "little ol' lady's" need of her was as distinct in Martha's
consciousness, as if it had come to her in the form of a verbal message,
through ordinary physical channels.
Its insistent reiteration, since the night before, had drowned out the
impression of Mrs. Peckett's mischievous tongue, even Katherine's
poignant reproaches. Everything else fell into the background before
that one soundless cry of appeal.
For once in her life Martha hurried.
Eunice Youngs met her at the kitchen-porch, showing a scared face.
"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she drawled, with something in her voice and manner
almost resembling animation, "oh, Mrs. Slawson, if ever I was glad to
see anybody!"
"What's the trouble?"
"I d'know. When I went up to Miss Katherine's room about an hour ago,
with Madam's coffee, I knocked an' knocked, an' no one answered. Then,
I went to Madam's door, an' knocked an' knocked, an' no one answered.
But the sitting-room door was open, so I peeked in, an'----"
"Well?" Martha's impatience spurred her on.
"Madam was sitting up in her chair, just like always, only she--looked
like she was dead."
Before the words were fairly out, Martha had brushed Eunice aside, and
was halfway up the back stairs. In the moment it took her to cover the
distance between them and the sitting-room, her thoughts ran riot, but
one sentence kept repeating itself unconsciously:
"Poor Miss Katherine! Poor Miss Katherine!"
Automatically she tapped on the sitting-room door, pushed it open, and
entered.
Madam Crewe was sitting in her chair, as Eunice had described her, but
as Martha came forward, the drooping head lifted ever so slightly, the
heavy eyes gave out a faint spark.
Without a word Martha poured into a glass one of Dr. Ballard's
stimulants, in the use of which she had been well instructed. She held
the glass to Madam Crewe's lips, supporting her while she drank, then
waiting until the lips showed a tinge of color.
"Good--morning! Why don't--you--ask--me, how I--slept?"
Martha caught the labored words with difficulty. She caught, what was
even more difficult, the intention to preserve the old tone of caustic
raillery.
"I never do," she answered imperturbably, playing up with gallant
spirit, to the required pace. "I never do. Mornin's, when folks ask
you how you slep', mostly it's just for the chance to let you know how
_they didn't_."
"Kath--er--ine?"
"I see her before I come in here. She's kinda played out, this mornin'.
I guess we better let her rest a while, hadn't we?"
Madam Crewe's eyes conveyed assent.
Chatting lightly on, ignoring any reason for not doing so, Martha
undressed the rigid little body, and laid it tenderly in bed. Somehow,
she managed to prepare a breakfast which the Madam patiently suffered
herself to be fed, though Martha knew it was a hardship.
"It'd astonish you, how she's fightin'," Mrs. Slawson told Miss Claire,
whom Mr. Ronald brought out in the course of the early forenoon to make
inquiries. "It'd astonish you. She _won't_ give in. She falls asleep,
in spite of herself, but after a minute, there she is awake again, for
all the world as if the spirit in her wouldn't let itself be downed. I
never see anybody _livin'_ as fierce as her. She's doin' it, for all
she's worth. Every minute, full up, begrutchin' the time she has to
lose for rest."
"You were right about Dr. Ballard, Martha," Francis Ronald admitted.
"He is coming. I am going to Burbank to meet him and bring him back
with me, directly I have taken my wife home."
Martha nodded. "I knew he'd do it. He's the kind you couldn't slip up
on. Same's yourself, sir."
When Martha returned to her patient, Madam Crewe had to be told where
she had been, had to be shown the flowers Mrs. Ronald had brought,
informed of the messages she had left.