Philippa, clutching the iron railing,
saw for a moment nothing but chaos. Her knees became weak. She was
unable to move. There was a queer dizziness in her ears. The sound
of voices sounded like part of an unreal nightmare. Then she was
aware of a single figure climbing the steps towards her. There was
blood trickling down his face from the wound in the forehead, and he
was limping slightly.
"Mr. Lessingham!" she called out, as he reached the topmost step.
He took an eager step towards her.
"Philippa!" he exclaimed. "Why, what are you doing here?"
"I was frightened," she faltered. "Are you hurt?"
"Not in the least," he assured her. "We had a rough sail home,
that's all, and that fellow Oates drank himself half unconscious.
Come along, let me help you up the steps and out of this."
She clung to his arm, and they struggled up the private path to the
house. Mills let them in with many expressions of concern, and
Helen came hurrying to them from the background.
"I went out to see the storm," Philippa explained weakly, "and I
saw Mr. Lessingham's boat brought in."
"And Mr. Lessingham will come this way at once," Helen insisted.
"I haven't had a real case since I got my certificate, and I'm going
to bind his head up."
Philippa began to feel her strength returning. The horror which lay
behind those few minutes of nightmare rose up again in her mind.
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