Death of a Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

and had once read a sermon of Bossuet; and Father Slack said he would pray for George’s soul, andMr. Winterbourne left £5 for Masses for the repose of George, which was generous (if foolish), for he didn’t earn much.
    And then Mr. Winterbourne used to pray ten minutes longer every night and morning for George’s soul, but unfortunately he went and got himself run over just by the Marble Arch as he was meditating on that blessed martyr, Father Parsons, and that other more blessed martyr, Father Garnet of Gunpowder fame. So, as the £5 was soon exhausted, there was nobody to pray for George’s soul; and for all the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church knows or cares, poor old George is in Hell, and likely to remain there. But, after the last few years of his life, George probably doesn’t find any difference.
    So much for George’s father and George’s death. The “reactions” (as they are called) of Mrs. Winterbourne were different. She found it rather exciting and stimulating at first, especially erotically stimulating. She was a woman who constantly dramatized herself and her life. She was as avid of public consideration as an Italian lieutenant, no matter what the quality of the praise. The only servants who ever stayed more than a trial month with her were those who bowed themselves to an abject discipline of adulation for Mrs. Winterbourne, Mrs. Winterbourne’s doings and sayings and possessions and whims and friends. Only, since Mrs. Winterbourne was exceedingly fickle and quarrelsome, and was always changing friends into enemies and vowed enemies into hollow friends, a more than diplomatic suppleness was exacted of these mercenary retainers, who only stayed with her because she gave them presents or raised their wages whenever the praise was really gratifying.
    Although a lady of “mature charms,” Mrs. Winterbourne loved to fancy herself as a delicious young thing of seventeen, passionately beloved by a sheik-like but nevertheless “clean” (not to say “straight”) Englishman. She was a mistress of would-be revolutionary platitudes about marriage and property (rather like the talk of an “enlightened” parson), but, in fact, was as sordid, avaricious, conventional, and spiteful a middle-class woman as you could dread to meet. Like all her class, she toadied to her betters and bullied her inferiors. But, with her conventionality, she was, of course, a hypocrite. In her kittenish moods, which she cultivated with a strange lack of a sense of congruity, she liked to throw out hints about “kicking over the traces.” But, as a matter of fact, she never soared much above tippling, financial dishonesty, squabbling, lying, betting, and affairs with bounderish young men,whom only her romantic effrontery could have dared describe as “clean and straight,” although there was no doubt whatever about their being English, and indeed sportin’ in a more or less bounderish way.
    She had had so many of these clean, straight young sheiks, that even poor Mr. Winterbourne got mixed up, and when he used to write dramatic letters beginning,
    â€œSir, – You have robbed me of my wife’s affection like a low hound – be it said in no un-Christian spirit,” the letters were always getting addressed to the penultimate or antepenultimate sheik, instead of the straight, clean one of the moment. However, rendered serious by the exhortations of the war Press and still more by the ever-ripening maturity of her charms, Mrs. Winterbourne made an instinctive and firm clutch at Sam Browne – so successfully that she clutched the poor devil for the remainder of his abbreviated life. (She did the abbreviation.) Sam Browne, of course, was almost too good to be true. If I hadn’t seen him myself I should never have believed in him. He was an animated – and not so very animated – stereotype. His knowledge of life was rudimentary