Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I’ll take all of them,” said George.

  The assistant looked uncertain, but when George handed over the cash, he shrugged his shoulders and deposited the money in the till.

  George was admiring a piece of jewelry in the display cabinet when the assistant handed back his change. “How much is that?” he asked, pointing to one of the velvet stands.

  “Which currency, sir?”

  “Pounds,” replied George, taking out his checkbook.

  The young man ran his finger down a line of figures on a card attached to the back wall. “Thirty-two pounds, sir.”

  George wrote out a check for next month’s salary, while the assistant wrapped the tiny gift.

  George made his way back to the dining car with the papers under one arm, having put the gift in his jacket pocket. As he entered the next carriage, he glanced up and down the corridor again. Still no one around. He slipped into the nearest lavatory and spent the next few minutes tearing off the front page of every paper, except one, and considerably longer flushing them down the lavatory. The moment he’d seen the last headline disappear, he unlocked the door and stepped back into the corridor. As George continued on toward the dining car, he dropped a copy of the morning paper on the floor outside each stateroom.

  “But, sir, I can explain how that happened,” protested George as the object ball bounced off the table and ran along the floor.

  “Another foul,” said Turner, picking up the ball and placing it back on the baize. “I don’t require an explanation, Mallory, but what are your prospects?”

  “As you know, sir, I’m on the teaching staff at Charterhouse, where my current salary is three hundred and seventy-five pounds a year.”

  “That’s certainly not enough to keep one of my daughters in the style they’ve grown accustomed to,” said Turner. “Do you by any chance have a private income?”

  “No, sir, I do not. My father is a parish priest who had four children to bring up.”

  “Then I shall settle seven hundred and fifty pounds a year on Ruth, and give her a house as a wedding present. Should there be any offspring, I shall pay for their education.”

  “I could never marry a girl who had a private income,” said George haughtily.

  “You couldn’t marry Ruth if she didn’t have one,” said Turner as he cannoned successfully off the red.

  George sat alone and sipped his coffee while he waited for Ruth to join him. Was there really a beautiful woman asleep in compartment B11, or was he about to wake from his dream and find himself locked up in an Italian jail, with no Mr. Irving to rescue him?

  Several other passengers had appeared and were enjoying their breakfast, although the waiters were unable to explain why their morning papers didn’t have a front page. When Ruth walked into the dining car, George had only one thought: I’m going to have breakfast with this woman every morning for the rest of my life.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Mallory,” he said as he rose from his side of the table and took her in his arms. “Do you begin to know how much I love you?” he added before kissing her.

  Ruth blushed at the disapproving stares from a few of the older passengers.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t kiss in public, George.”

  “You were happy enough to kiss me yesterday in front of a policeman,” George reminded her as he sat back down.

  “But only because I was trying to stop you being arrested.”

  The waiter joined them and smiled ingratiatingly. After all, they were used to honeymoon couples on the Orient Express.

  After the two of them had given their breakfast orders, George slid the front page of the morning paper across the table.

  “Nice photograph, Mr. Mallory,” Ruth whispered once she’d read the headline. “And if it isn’t bad enough for a girl to be compromised on her first date, I now seem to be harboring a fugitive. So the first thing my father will want to know is whether your intentions are honorable, or can I only hope to be a criminal’s moll?”

  “I’m surprised you need to ask, Mrs. Mallory.”

  “It’s just that my father told me that you already have a mistress who resides in very high places.”

  “Your father is correct, and I explained to him that I have been promised to the lady in question since my coming of age, and several people have already borne witness to the engagement. It’s what they call in Tibet an arranged marriage—where neither party sees the other before the wedding day.”

  “Then you must visit this little hussy as soon as possible,” said Ruth, “and tell her in no uncertain terms that you are spoken for.”

  “I fear she’s not that little,” said George with a grin. “But once the diplomatic niceties have been sorted out, I hope to pay her a visit early in the new year, when I will explain why it’s no longer possible for us to go on seeing each other.”

  “No woman ever wants to be told that,” said Ruth, sounding serious for the first time. “You can tell her that I’ll agree to a compromise.”

  George smiled. “A compromise?”

  “It’s possible,” said Ruth, “that this goddess may not agree to see you when you make your first approach, because like any woman, she will want to confirm that you are constant and will return to woo her again. All I ask, George, is that once you have seduced your goddess, you will return to me, and never court her again.”

  “Why so serious, my darling?” asked George, taking her hand.

  “Because when I saw you climb St. Mark’s you convinced me of your love, but I also saw the risks you’re willing to take if you believe in something passionately enough—whatever dangers are placed in your path. I want you to promise me that once you’ve stood on the summit of that infernal mountain, it will be for the first and last time.”

  “I agree, and shall now prove it,” said George, letting go of her hand. He took the little package out of his pocket, removed the wrapping, and placed the small leather box in front of her. Ruth opened the lid to reveal a slim gold ring set with a single diamond.

  “Will you marry me, my darling?”

  Ruth smiled. “I thought we’d agreed on that yesterday,” she said as she slipped on the ring, leaned across the table and gave her fiancé a kiss.

  “But I thought we also agreed that…”

  George considered Mr. Turner’s offer for a moment before he said, “Thank you, sir.” After managing to score three points, his first of the evening, he added, “That’s most generous of you.”

  “It’s no more, and certainly no less, than I decided when you came to see Ruth in Venice.” George laughed for the first time that evening. “Despite the fact,” added Turner, “that you only escaped being thrown in jail by a matter of minutes.”

  “By a matter of minutes?”

  “Yes,” Turner replied after he’d potted another red. “I had a visit from the Italian police later that afternoon. They wanted to know if I’d come across an Englishman called Mallory who had at some time in the past been arrested in Paris for climbing the Eiffel Tower.”

  “That wasn’t me, sir,” said George.

  “The description of this vagabond bore a striking resemblance to you, Mallory.”

  “It’s still not true, sir. I had at least a hundred feet to go when they arrested me.”

  Turner burst out laughing. “All I can say, Mallory, is that you’d better not plan to spend your honeymoon in France or Italy, unless you wish to spend your first night of married life in a prison cell. Mind you, when I looked into your criminal activities in Venice, it seems that you only broke a by-law.”

  “A by-law?”

  “Failure to pay an entrance fee when entering a public monument.” Turner paused, “Maximum fine one thousand lire.” He smiled at his future son-in-law. “On a more serious matter, dear boy—my game, I think.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TUESDAY, JUNE 2ND, 1914

  “DO YOU THINK we’ll have to go to war, sir?” asked Wainwright on the first day of term.

&
nbsp; “Let’s hope not, Wainwright,” George replied.

  “Why not, sir, if it’s a just cause? After all, we should stand up for what we believe in; the English always have in the past.”

  “But if it were possible to negotiate an honorable agreement with the Germans,” said George, “wouldn’t that be a better solution?”

  “You can’t negotiate an honorable agreement with the Hun, sir. They never keep to their side of the bargain.”

  “Perhaps history will prove you wrong on this occasion,” said George.

  “You’ve always taught us, sir, to study the past carefully if you want to predict the most likely outcome in the future, and the Hun—”

  “The Germans, Wainwright.”

  “The Germans, sir, have throughout history proved to be a warlike nation.”

  “Some might say the same of the English, whenever it’s been in our interests.”

  “Not true, sir,” said Wainwright. “England only goes to war when there’s a just cause.”

  “As seen by the English,” suggested George, which silenced Wainwright for a moment.

  “But if we did have to go to war,” jumped in Carter minor, “would you enlist?”

  Before George could reply, Wainwright interjected, “Mr. Asquith has said that should we go to war, schoolmasters would be exempt from serving in the armed forces.”

  “You seem unusually well informed on this subject, Wainwright,” said George.

  “My father’s a general, sir.”

  “Views overheard in the nursery are always harder to dislodge than those taught in the classroom,” replied George.

  “Who said that?” asked Graves.

  “Bertrand Russell,” George replied.

  “And everyone knows he’s a conchie,” chipped in Wainwright.

  “What’s a conchie?” asked Carter minor.

  “A conscientious objector. Someone who will use any excuse not to fight for his country,” said Wainwright.

  “Everyone should be allowed to follow their own conscience, Wainwright, when it comes to facing a moral dilemma.”

  “Bertrand Russell, no doubt,” said Wainwright.

  “Jesus Christ, actually,” said George.

  Wainwright fell silent, but Carter minor came back, “If we were to go to war, sir, wouldn’t that rather scupper your chances of climbing Everest?”

  Out of the mouths of babes…Ruth had put the same question to him over a breakfast, as well as the more important one of whether he would feel it was his duty to enlist or, as her father had crudely put it, would hide behind the shield of a schoolmaster’s gown.

  “My personal belief—” began George just as the bell sounded. The class, in their eagerness not to miss morning break, didn’t seem all that interested in his personal beliefs.

  As George walked across to the common room, he dismissed any thoughts of war in the hope of coming to a peaceful settlement with Andrew, whom he hadn’t seen since he’d returned from Venice. When he opened the common room door he spotted his chum sitting in his usual seat reading The Times. He didn’t look up. George poured himself a cup of tea and walked slowly across to join him, quite ready for a bout of mental fisticuffs.

  “Good morning, George,” Andrew said, still not looking up.

  “Good morning, Andrew,” George replied, slipping into the seat beside him.

  “I hope you had decent hols,” Andrew added as he abandoned his newspaper.

  “Pleasant enough,” replied George cautiously.

  “Can’t say I did, old boy.”

  George sat back and waited for the onslaught.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about Ruth and me,” said Andrew.

  “Of course I have,” said George.

  “So what would you advise me to do about it, old boy?”

  “Be magnanimous?” suggested George hopefully.

  “Easy enough for you to say, old boy, but what about Ruth? I can’t see her being magnanimous.”

  “Why not?” asked George.

  “Would you be if I let you down at the last moment?”

  George couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

  “I really did mean to go to Venice, don’t you know,” continued Andrew, “but that was before we reached the semi-final of the Taunton Cup.”

  “Congratulations,” said George, beginning to understand.

  “And the lads prevailed on me, said I couldn’t let the side down, especially as they didn’t have another goalkeeper.”

  “So you never went to Venice?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, old boy. And worse, we didn’t even win the cup, so I lost out both ways.”

  “Bad luck, old chap,” said George, trying to hide a smirk.

  “Do you think she’ll ever speak to me again?” asked Andrew.

  “Well, you’ll be able to find out soon enough,” said George.

  Andrew raised an eyebrow. “How come, old chap?”

  “We’ve just sent you an invitation to our wedding.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 29TH, 1914

  “HAVE YOU MET this paragon of virtue?” asked Odell as he folded his copy of the Manchester Guardian and placed it on the seat beside him.

  “No,” said Finch, “but I should have guessed something was up when Mallory left us early and disappeared off to Venice.”

  “I think it’s what female novelists describe as a whirlwind romance,” said Young. “They’ve only known each other a few months.”

  “That would have been quite long enough for me,” chipped in Guy Bullock, who had returned to England. “I can tell you chaps, she’s ravishing, and anyone who might have been envious of George in the past will turn into a green-eyed monster the moment they set eyes on her.”

  “I can’t wait to meet the girl George fell for,” said Somervell with a grin.

  “It’s time to call this meeting to order,” said Young when the guard shouted, “Next stop, Godalming!”

  “To start with,” continued Young, “I hope you all remembered to bring your ice axes…”

  “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  George never took his eyes off Ruth while his father was addressing him. “I will,” he responded firmly.

  The Reverend Mallory turned his attention to the bride, and smiled. “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” said Ruth, although few beyond the front pew would have heard her response.

  “Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?” asked the Reverend Mallory.

  Mr. Thackeray Turner stepped forward and said, “I do.”

  Geoffrey Young, who was George’s best man, handed the Reverend Mallory a simple gold ring. George slipped it onto the fourth finger of Ruth’s left hand and said, “With this Ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Mr. Turner smiled to himself.

  The Reverend Mallory once more joined the couple’s right hands, and addressed the congregation joyfully. “I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  As the first strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March sounded, George kissed his wife for the first time.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mallory walked slowly down the aisle together, and George was delighted to see how many of his friends had taken the trouble to make the journey to Godalming. He spotted Rupert Brooke and Lytton Strachey, both Maynard and Geoffrey Keynes, as well as Ka Cox, who was sitting next to Cottie San
ders, who gave him a sad smile. But the real surprise came when they walked out of the church and into the warm sunshine, because waiting to greet them was a guard of honor made up of Young, Bullock, Herford, Somervell, Odell, and of course George Finch, their shining ice axes held aloft to form an archway under which the bride and groom walked, confetti appearing like falling snow.

  After a reception at which George and Ruth managed to speak to every one of their guests, the newlyweds left in Mr. Turner’s brand-new bull-nose Morris, for a ten-day walking holiday in the Quantocks.

  “So what did you make of the chaperones who will accompany me when I leave you to pay homage to the other woman in my life?” George asked as he drove down an empty, winding road.

  “I can see why you’re so willing to follow Geoffrey Young,” Ruth replied, studying the map resting in her lap. “Especially after his thoughtful speech on behalf of the bridesmaids. Odell and Somervell looked as if, like Horatius, they’d stand by your side on the bridge, while I suspect Herford will match you step for step if he’s chosen for the final climb.”

  “And Finch?” said George, glancing at his bride.

  Ruth hesitated. The tone of her voice changed. “He’ll do anything, George, and I mean anything, to reach the top of that mountain ahead of you.”

  “What makes you feel so sure of that, my darling?” asked George, sounding surprised.

  “When I came out of the church on your arm, he looked at me as if I was still a single woman.”

  “As many of the bachelors in the congregation might have done,” suggested George. “Including Andrew O’Sullivan.”

  “No. Andrew looked at me as if he wished I was still a single woman. There’s a world of difference.”

  “You may be right about Finch,” admitted George, “but there’s no climber I’d rather have by my side when it comes to tackling the last thousand feet of any mountain.”

  “Including Everest?”

  “Especially Chomolungma.”

  The Mallorys pulled up outside their small hotel in Crewkerne just after seven o’clock that evening. The manager was standing at the entrance waiting to greet them, and once they had completed the guest register—signing as “Mr. and Mrs. Mallory” for only the second time—he accompanied them to the bridal suite.