The Women of Eden by Marilyn Harris

rendered him mute, his face expressionless, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, a slim, petrified boy who considered himself unworthy to breathe God's air.
    Small wonder, then, his transformation on that day with that miracle of a man, one Herbert Nichols, that ferociously alive son of a Norfolk rector, with no connections and httie money, yet fiHing the door of their Cambridge attic with a degree of love that had, incredibly, increased from that day to this.
    In an attempt to retain the good memory, Richard closed his eyes. He had never known such a man and knew he would never know another. God did not create such men effortlessly or in quantity, filling their hearts with that rarest of commodities, an indiscriminate love for merely all mankind.
    There Bertie stood now, still vigorous and handsome, a few strands of gray flecking his sandy-colored hair, his shoulders bent from the long hours spent over books, though still exhibiting a grandeur in spite of his unfortunate propensity always to look mussed.
    Out of habit Richard lowered his head and gave a brief prayer of thanks for the world and all the people in it. When he looked up he saw Bertie with his arm about the young man's shoulder, giving him last-minute words of encouragement.
    "You'U do well, Todd," he called out. "I know you will. Remember what I told you, and have confidence in yourself."
    The last command was issued with mock fierceness, causing the boy to duck his head, walking backward across the small courtyard, his eyes fixed in adoration on Bertie.
    Then the student was gone and Bertie was left alone at the end of the path. Richard thought he detected a weariness on his face. And why not? He had seen his readers last night until past midnight and

    had risen before six this morning in order to prepare for the journey.
    Richard left the carriage, summoning the driver to help with the trunks. He was less than three feet from him before Bertie looked up, his expression one of thoughtful repose. At the sound of Richard's steps on gravel, he glanced toward him with a soft apology.
    "Ah, Richard, I'm sorry for the delay." He smiled, one hand brushing back his hair. "The boy will founder, I'm afraid, unless—"
    "Unless you throw him a lifeline," Richard interrupted.
    Bertie nodded and started to object as the coachman, a strapping lad from the town of Cambridge, effortlessly hoisted both trunks onto his shoulders and started toward the carriage. From experience, Richard knew that Bertie disliked the sense of being served or waited upon. When he started toward the coachman to lend a hand, Richard let him go.
    As Bertie lifted the final trunk up, he turned about, in the process stripping off his black robe, his attitude still one of apology. "You can place the blame squarely on my shoulders, Richard. Or better still, I'll explain to John myself."
    But Richard merely smiled, taking note of the rumpled suit beneath Bertie's black robe. It bore not the slightest indication that it had ever known a press. As Bertie flung his black robe through the carriage window, Richard stepped forward and straightened his neck scarf.
    "Am la total wreck?" Bertie brooded, "And I dressed so carefully this morning!"
    "You look fine," Richard soothed.
    "Trunks secured, sir!" The voice came from the young coachman, who had just taken his seat, reins in hand. Suffering the excitement that always accompanies a journey, Richard took Bertie's arm and assisted him up into the carriage, the sense of holiday strong within him.
    As Richard felt the carriage start forward, the shadows of Nevile's Court obliterated the sun on the handsome, bemused face across the way. In an attempt to control the love he felt for the man, Richard felt a compulsion to continue talking.
    He did not take his eyes off the face he loved more than life itself. Nor did he alter his focus as he reached up and released the small window curtains on each side of the carriage. As the curtains slipped down, casting the