“Mother!” cried Cecil’s voice again, on a high, sobbing note.
“She’s mad!” Ford repeated, between his teeth. “Hush—the servants. Get her upstairs.... Ah-h—no, you don’t——”
Rose had wrenched furiously against his grasp.
“Get her upstairs, Cecil. Help me, you fool! She’s as strong as a horse.... Take her feet!”
Rose, suddenly stock-still in his grasp, shuddered from head to foot. She began to tremble violently.
“Take her feet!” Ford commanded.
A flicker passed across Rose’s face.
“By God, no!” shouted Cecil suddenly. “Let go of her arms. She’ll come with me.”
Still in Ford’s grasp, Rose turned her head, her eyes, human and seeing again, seeking Cecil’s.
With that sudden relaxation of tension she found herself, strangely, able to smile at him; and quite suddenly, with the constricted gesture that alone was possible to her with Ford’s hold still upon either arm, she put out her hand to her son.