The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne

Mission Of Mr. Eustace Greyne,
by Robert Hichens

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Title: The Mission Of Mr. Eustace Greyne 1905
Author: Robert Hichens
Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23415]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE ***

Produced by David Widger

THE MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE
By Robert Hichens
Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers

Copyright, 1905

I
Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead--that
noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the
newspapers of two hemispheres--laid down her American Squeezer pen,
and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of the
rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and Belgrave
Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had written
her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman on
the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their
stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne's ears like the asthma of
dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto
voice: "It must be so." Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian
carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her
earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell.
Like lightning a powdered giant came.
"Has Mr. Greyne gone out?"
"No, ma'am."
"Where is he?"
"In his study, ma'am, pasting the last of the cuttings into the new
album."
Mrs. Greyne smiled. It was a pretty picture the unconscious six-footer
had conjured up.
"I am sorry to disturb Mr. Greyne," she answered, with that gracious,
and even curling suavity which won all hearts; "but I wish to see him.
Will you ask him to come to me for a moment?"
The giant flew, silk-stockinged, to obey the mandate, while Mrs.

Greyne sat down on a carved oaken chair of ecclesiastical aspect to
await her husband.
She was a famous woman, a personage, this simply-attired lady. With
an American Squeezer pen she had won fame, fortune, and a mansion
in Belgrave Square, and all without the sacrifice of principle.
Respectability incarnate, she had so dealt with the sorrows and evils of
the world that she had rendered them utterly acceptable to Mrs. Grundy,
Mr. Grundy, and all the Misses Grundy. People said she dived into the
depths of human nature, and brought up nothing that need scandalise a
curate's grandmother, or the whole-aunt of an archdeacon; and this was
so true that she had made a really prodigious amount of money. Her
large, her solid, her unrelenting books lay upon every table. Even the
smart set kept them, uncut--like pretty sinners who have never been
"found out"--to give an air of haphazard intellectuality to frisky
boudoirs, All the clergy, however unable to get their tithes, bought
them. All bishops alluded to them in "pulpit utterances." Fabulous
prices were paid for them by magazine editors. They ran as serials
through all the tale of months. The suburbs battened on them. The
provinces adored them. Country people talked of no other literature. In
fact, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was a really fabulous success.
Why, then, should she heave these heavy sighs in Belgrave Square?
Why should she lift an intellectual hand as though to tousle the glossy
chestnut bandeaux which swept back from her forcible forehead, and
screw her reassuring features into these wrinkles of perplexity and
distress?
The door opened, and Mr. Eustace Greyne appeared, "What is it,
Eugenia?" upon his lips.
Mr. Greyne was a number of years younger than his celebrated wife,
and looked even younger than his years. He was a very smart man, with
smooth, jet-black hair, which he wore parted in the middle; pleasant,
dark eyes that could twinkle gently; a clear, pale complexion; and a
nice, tall figure. One felt, in glancing at him, that he had been an Eton
boy, and had at least thought of going into the militia at some period of
his life. His history can be briefly told.

Scarcely had he emerged into the world before he met and was married
to Mrs. Eustace Greyne, then Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. He had
had no time to sow a single oat, wild or otherwise; no time to adore a
barmaid, or wish to have his name linked with that of an actress; no
time to do anything wrong, or even to know, with the complete
accuracy desired by all persevering young men,