As It Was in the Beginning Part 1

As It Was in the Beginning.

by Philip Verrill Mighels.

CHAPTER I

A TRUSTED MESSENGER

Grenville was not the type to be readily excited, yet a glow of exceptional brilliance shone in his eyes as he met the searching gaze of his friend, and wondered if Fenton could be jesting.

That he had made no reply whatsoever to Fenton's proposition he failed to realize till Gerald spoke again.

"Well, Sid," demanded that impetuous lieutenant of finance, "gone dumb?

Perhaps I haven't made it plain," and he particularized on his fingers.

"You get an ocean trip of eight or ten weeks' duration, tropic sun at its best, leisurely business without a fleck of bother, absolute rest, good provender, thorough recuperation, your entire expenses cheerfully paid, vast service rendered to me, no time lost on your equilibrator, time for countless new inventions to sprout in your fertile brain--and the unutterable joy of escaping this abominable climate, practically at once!"

Grenville's smile, still brightly boyish, despite the many reverses and hards.h.i.+ps of his six and twenty years, came creeping to his eyes. His wan face suggested a tint of color.

"Don't wake me up for a moment, Fen," he answered. "I haven't dreamed anything like it for years."

"Dreamed?" repeated Fenton, resuming his interrupted pacing up and down the rug, where the firelight reddened his profile. "Does that mean you like it?--you'll go?"

"Would Cinderella go to a ball?" replied the still incredulous Grenville, half seriously. "What's the joker, old chap? What is the worst that could happen at the midnight stroke of twelve?"

Fenton came at once and laid his hands on the broad, bony shoulders of his friend.

"Have I ever played a joker with you yet?" said he. "Never mind the apology. I forgive you. I understand the compliment. Proposal sounds too good to be true, and all that sort of rubbish. The fact is, old man, I want you to go to Canton, China, and bring home my affianced bride. That's absolutely all there is to the business. You need the change and voyage; I haven't the time to go out there and fetch her myself. Elaine is alone in that heathenish country, miserably heartsick over her uncle's sudden death. She wishes to return at once.

I can't let the poor girl come alone. I've no one in the world but you I'd care to send--and there you are."

The glow departed from Grenville's eyes. His doubts of any proposition with a woman in the case lurked deep in his level gaze. His face became once more the rugged mask with which he had so long confronted a world persistently gray. The smile he summoned to his lips was more quizzical than mirthful.

"It sounds perfectly simple," he replied. "But--you know there are several tales, recorded in prose and verse, of kings who have sent a trusted messenger on precisely such an errand. The joker somehow managed to get into play."

"Just so," agreed Fenton, readily. "Three or four times in a thousand cases the girl and the--er--messenger rather thoughtlessly--well, a complication arises. The percentage, however, is excessively low.

We'll consider that a negligible possibility. You see, I know both you and Elaine, and I am not a king. The question is--will you go?"

Grenville was always amused by Fenton's arguments.

"I have seen no statistics on the subject," he admitted. "In this particular instance you think there is not the slightest danger?"

"Of finding in old Sid a modern Launcelot?" Fenton turned his friend about till both of them faced down the length of the room. "Well," he added, "to be sure----"

Grenville's quick glance had sped to the ma.s.sive mirror, ten feet away, where both himself and Fenton were reflected from heels to crown. He comprehended in a glance the ill-clothed, thin, ungainly figure he presented: his big hands hanging loosely down, his face too ruggedly modeled, too sallow for attractiveness, his hair too rebellious for order.

A Launcelot indeed! The irony of the situation struck home to his sense of humor.

"Have a look," continued Fenton, his nervous glance indifferent to his own athletic fitness, the perfect grooming of his person, the grace and elegance of his tailoring. "Do you discern anything of the disloyal amba.s.sador in that hard-worked friend and comrade of my happiest years?" His eyes gleamed irresistibly. "You see, old chap, you have trusted an invention of perhaps incalculable worth to my honor, and must leave both your fame and possible fortune in my keeping while you are long away."

"Yes, but----"

"I know, exactly. This is the sort of thing you and I have always done by one another. I had no thought of refusing your trust in me, and so--I have booked your pa.s.sage for Wednesday."

He turned again to the mantel and began to fill his pipe.

Grenville pivoted slowly and rubbed the corner of his jaw.

"You have--booked my pa.s.sage--for Wednesday?"

Fenton nodded. "Elaine is quite desolate and lonely. You need immediate suns.h.i.+ne and warmth, and can do no good remaining here. Fine day all round for starting, Wednesday, and no boat sailing sooner.

There are one thousand dollars in that wad by the statue of Anubis, for your outfit and incidental cash."

Grenville glanced mechanically at the dog-headed G.o.d of the ancient Egyptians, apparently guarding the money towards which Fenton had waved a careless gesture.

"One thou----"

"If it isn't enough, draw on my bankers for more," interrupted Fenton, puffing at his calabash industriously. "I have written Elaine so fully you'll have nothing to explain."

"By George!" said Grenville, more aggressively, "I like your nerve--the way you'd plunge me into trouble! Do you think I'm a mere senseless rack of wires and bones because I'm not my usual self? What's to prevent me from falling head over heels---- What's the rest of her name--Elaine what? And you probably have her photograph somewhere among your possessions."

"Her full name," Fenton answered, moving to the desk beside the mirror, "is Elaine Lytton--twenty-one this month. We've known each other seven years." He returned, extending a small-sized photograph. "Fine girl.

That's her picture. Good likeness--sent me last winter from China."

Grenville studied the photograph superficially. He used it to tap on the table as he once more faced his host.

"About as I expected," he announced with his customary candor.

"Nice-looking girl--nothing extra, perhaps, but nice enough. Now tell me how any healthy male friend of yours can guarantee not to fall in love with Elaine, on a long, lazy trip through the tropics," and he cast the picture from him towards the lamp.

Fenton relighted his pipe. "Well, suppose he did commit the folly you describe, what then?"

"What then?" echoed Grenville, incredulously. "By the long, curved lashes of Juno's eyes, if I were the man you'd certainly see what then!"

"All right," said the imperturbable Fenton. "I accept your conditions, fully, and about your outfit I'd suggest----"

"Hold on!" interrupted Grenville. "I haven't accepted your commission, much as the trip----"

"The trip!" said Fenton. "Ah! that's the point! I insist on your making the trip, you see, and taking the rest. Fetching Elaine from China is merely incidental--only don't forget her completely and come back here empty-handed." He sat down to wrestle with his pipe.

Grenville looked at him amusedly.

"Now, see here," he said, "don't you make the slightest mistake, you confident old idiot. If I should just happen to fancy Elaine, I wouldn't give you twenty cents in Mexican money for your chances at the wedding bells and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs."

"Then you'll go!" Fenton suddenly exploded, springing to his feet.

"Come on, that's settled--shake."

But Grenville retreated from the outstretched hand, a queer smile playing on his features.

"Hang your infernal self-conceit," he answered; "you don't think I could win her if I tried."

"I don't believe you'll try."