"I tell you, I am going to get up," repeated Dora; "I am better, much better."
Her eyes shot lightning glances. Her two nurses were dumfounded, and knew not what to do. The doctor had not yet arrived on his morning round.
"Do have patience, ma'am. Wait at least until the doctor comes," said Hobbs, thoroughly alarmed. And she insisted upon it that her mistress must not get up until Dr. Templeton came.
"I shall not wait for anything," said Dora. "I tell you that I am going to get up."
She left her bed, swayed for a moment on her feet; but presently, standing bravely up without support of any kind, she said, with a laugh—
"You see quite well that I am better. I am cured. I shall dress and go out."
"But you are crazy," said Gabrielle.
"You are joking, ma'am," added Hobbs.
It is true that the doctor had told them to do nothing which might cross her, but the two good women said to themselves: "Yet, if she wanted to throw herself out of the window, we should certainly not let her do it. And to go out in her present state is probably about as dangerous." They did not know what to do. The doctor did not come. Still less did they know what to think. Was Dora completely mad, or was this some marvellous and mysterious metamorphosis? No, she was not mad. Dora possessed something which has saved thousands of much-tried human beings from spiritual and moral shipwreck, and has reattached them to life again. She possessed that internal god whom the Greeks called enthusiasm, that divine transport which, lifting the soul above itself, excites to great resolutions and lofty actions.
Eva was no more. Philip was gone, and little she cared to know where. She was free, mistress of her actions. She had no longer husband or child. Well! there was still left to her a third motive for living, Art. The mother and the wife had ceased to exist, but the artist was still alive.