Next morning they had taken heart of hope again. Undoubtedly Mary had exhausted the supply, and the possibility of its being replenished seemed remote. It was only a matter of time now; of care, of unremitting, yet gentle vigilance and Mary would be cured. The bride could go to her husband, clean and in her right mind. And Esther would be free.
Strangely enough, it was Mary herself who objected to a hastening of their remarriage. Perhaps in spite of her inevitable deterioration there was that in her still which forbade her going to him as she was. Perhaps it was only another and more obscure effect of the drug; some downward instinct which made her dread the putting of herself within the circle of her husband's strength. She would fight her fight outside. Why? Was it because she would conquer of herself, or because she did not really wish to conquer at all?
To Esther, Mary's refusal came as a reprieve. But to Callandar it was but a lengthening out of torture. Man's love must always, in its essence, be different from woman's; though many women seem incapable of recognising this fact. To Esther, now that she had put aside her first half-understood glimpse of passion, it was sweet to be near him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand and, above all, to spend her strength in his service. But to him the strain was almost intolerable. The sight of her, the touch of her, the whole soul-shattering nearness of her beauty meant constant conflict; all the fiercer since it must be unsuspected.
Willits, the only man who had been told the truth, watched the fight with admiration, sharply touched with anxiety. Expert in the moulding of buttons, he knew very well that Callandar was drawing rather recklessly upon his newly acquired strength. If the tension did not slacken soon there might be another physical breakdown, and then--Willits shrugged his shoulders. It would be entirely too bad if this very fine button were to be spoiled after all. His heart was sore for his friend.
"You see," Callandar had written in one of his rare letters, "it was a right instinct which warned me that no man escapes the consequences of his own acts. There did come a short, golden time when I put the voice of instinct behind me and dared to think that I, at least, had shaken myself free. Closing the door of yesterday, I boldly knocked open the door of to-morrow--and lo, to-morrow and yesterday were one!