When a Man Marries

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

Mr. Harbison was conscious. His eyes were open, and he was staring at us both as we stood framed by the doorway.

He lay back at once and closed his eyes, and the nurse shut the door. There was no use, even if I had been allowed in, in trying to explain to him. To attempt such a thing would have been to presume that he was interested in an explanation. I thought bitterly to myself as I brought the nurse cracked ice and struggled to make beef tea in the kitchen, that lives had been wrecked on less.

Dal was allowed ten minutes in the sick room during the afternoon, and he came out looking puzzled and excited. He refused to tell us what he had learned, however, and the rest of the afternoon he and Jim spent in the cellar.

The day dragged on. Downstairs people ate and read and wrote letters, and outside newspaper men talked together and gazed over at the house and photographed the doctors coming in and the doctors going out. As for me, in the intervals of bringing things, I sat in Bella’s chair in the upper hall, and listened to the crackle of the nurse’s starched skirts.

At midnight that night the doctors made a thorough examination. When they came out they were smiling.

“He is doing very well,” the younger one said—he was hairy and dark, but he was beautiful to me. “He is entirely conscious now, and in about an hour you can send the nurse off for a little sleep. Don’t let him talk.”

And so at last I went through the familiar door into an unfamiliar room, with basins and towels and bottles around, and a screen made of Jim’s largest canvases. And someone on the improvised bed turned and looked at me. He did not speak, and I sat down beside him. After a while he put his hand over mine as it lay on the bed.

“You are much better to me than I deserve,” he said softly. And because his eyes were disconcerting, I put an ice cloth over them.

“Much better than you deserve,” I said, and patted the ice cloth to place gently. He fumbled around until he found my hand again, and we were quiet for a long time. I think he dozed, for he roused suddenly and pulled the cloth from his eyes.

“The—the day is all confused,” he said, turning to look at me, “but—one thing seems to stand out from everything else. Perhaps it was delirium, but I seemed to see that door over there open, and you, outside, with—with Max. His arms were around you.”