 | After Death — What |  |
2. Part II
Ogilvie, an active man himself, possessed a family always busily engaged. His daughter, Irene, and his son, Tod, seemed to have inherited their father's restlessness. Like him, they had to do things all the time. Their mother had been dead for several years.
At the very moment when Ogilvie and Spalding stepped into the former's limousine, Irene was busily engaged. She was gambling — in the highly respectable and reputable way sanctioned by the present fashion — at her own bridge-whist in her own home.
Irene Ogilvie was a pretty girl just out of her teens. She was interesting. She had a quick, nervous, attractive way about her, a vivid smile, and fine teeth and eyes. Her great social ambition was to keep herself constantly interested.
To this end she avoided the fish, the crabs, the muckers. She rouged a bit, smoked a bit, and wore abbreviated frocks; but she did these things unconsciously, as it were — did them as a matter of course. The stare of a roue at her bare shoulder embarrassed her not a jot nor tittle; nor did the flush of clean-hearted youth at the same seductive sight cause her any thrill.
To her, styles and manners were quite a matter of course — as little worthy of remark as daily food. Had fashion dictated nun's garb for a change, she would have assumed it. If taking snuff had come into style, she would have sneezed with all the rest.
But these were not the interesting things. The mob lived to do these things; Irene lived for something else. Innocently, but eagerly, she sought the spice of life and found it — the unique in men and women. Not fish — not crabs. Spice — that was the point!
She had learned early what few New Yorkers know — that regularity and respectability do not afford the real entertainment — that there is but little of the dramatic to be found in a flock of sheep. Unconsciously, unerringly, she picked the crowd that pleased her — the irregulars, those tinged with a bit of mystery. Not, the Bohemians — they are all alike. Some of her friends were rich, some poor, many of them prominent, some quite unknown; but all were gay, all were interesting.
The most interesting of them all was Blandy, soldier of fortune.
As his car turned into the long, straight stretch that led to his home, Ogilvie was thinking about Irene.
"After death — what?"
He couldn't shake it off. What would become of Irene? She might marry, but she hadn't married yet. What in the world would she do, if —
Tod, who was now in his junior year at Yale, could get along; he could surely earn some sort of a living for himself. Hard-pan was all right for Tod. But Irene —
Like a flash, a flying gray object speeded down the long stretch, swerved slightly, and crashed into the limousine. Ogilvie's car skidded against the curb, balanced for an instant on its two right-hand wheels, and then toppled heavily on its side.
Two blocks down the avenue the gray car shrieked as if in agony, as its driver furiously applied the brakes. Then it turned slowly and came back.
The chauffeur of the limousine had leaped at the psychological moment, had silenced his engine, and now was struggling with the side door of the overturned car. In the far corner a huddled heap lay silent. This heap was Ephraim T. Ogilvie.
The gray car crept back to the scene of the accident, like some culprit fearful
"My great, Mr. Tod, it's you!" he cried.
"Good Lord, Andy!" returned the driver of the gray car. "I almost did for you! Are you hurt? It's my new car, and she bucks a bit. No bones — eh? What?"
The chauffeur pointed into the recesses of the limousine. Tod Ogilvie wasted no further words. He saw what had happened — he saw that hunched-up heap inside.
Tod got busy. He was a thorough-going Johnny-on-the-spot, this Tod Ogilvie. In his own way he was as efficient as his father; and motor-car accidents were in his line. He was worth three of Andy in an emergency. In the twinkling of an eye he had Ephraim T. Ogilvie out of the limousine, had him lying on the sidewalk, with a cushion underneath his head, and had him revived.
"Pop," he cried contritely, "it's me, Tod! It's my new car! I brought it all the way from New Haven just to show it to you, and see what I've done! Almost killed you — that's what I've done! How do you feel?"
Ephraim T. Ogilvie lifted his left arm — and dropped it. He groaned. The bone was broken. He placed his right hand upon his chest.
"Something there!" he moaned. "Oh, the pain!"
Tenderly they bundled him into the gray racer and took him home.
As they bore him through the wide hall, some of Irene Ogilvie's guests shrieked. Some of the women lit fresh cigarettes, some of them pushed card-tables out of the way. Others merely shivered and sought the dressing-room. The whist was broken up. The players stood not on the order of their going, but went at once.
Irene issued curt orders through the telephone. Inside of half an hour Pliny, the operating surgeon at the Riverside, who had answered her call, tucked his stethoscope into his bag.
"His heart seems O. K.," he said. "I'll have to give him ether, I'm afraid."
"You'll have to," moaned Ephraim. "Oh, the pain!"
Twenty minutes later Pliny's assistant held a cone over the face of Ephraim T. Ogilvie. The patient, obeying instructions, drew a deep, deep breath.
He wondered vaguely if it was to be his last.
| After Death — What | |