Lady Rachel’s warning sank into fruitful soil. Madeline plucked up sufficient energy to urge her father to relieve her of her incubus.
“I should much prefer being alone; I should indeed.”
“Pooh, pooh, my dear!” recalling her doctor’s advice, and thinking what an agreeable shipmate he was providing, not only for Madeline, but himself. “Nonsense; it’s all settled, passages booked. No change possible.”
“I shall be far happier without her.”
“Oh, rubbish! You are just weak now, and fanciful. Mrs. Leach is devoted to you.”
“I doubt it; and, father, let me tell you a secret. I don’t like her. I am sure she is not sincere. She is not straight.”
“Come, come; she is as sincere as most women. I wonder who has been putting these notions into your head—Lady Rachel, eh? Mrs. Leach gave me a hint. Lady Rachel is all very well, and very pleasant; but a bit rapid, you know.”
“Whatever she does is open and above-board,” protested Madeline warmly.
“I’m not so sure of that, my dear. Mrs. Leach knows a few things that would never stand the light, and her ladyship is aware of this, and that’s why she hates our good friend, and wants to set you against her.”
Madeline, weak and miserable, could not argue. She was powerless against the attractive widow. She, poor hollow-eyed wreck, was no fitting opponent for the fascinating Flora, whose battery of beauty and smiles was most effective, and had captivated Madeline’s susceptible parent. Her influence was far more powerful than Madeline’s, on the question of what was for the benefit of the invalid, and the invalid saw that it was useless to prolong the secret struggle, and succumbed to her fate.