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Page 44
And when Hobson, some time later, entered the bedroom with her grace's
early cup of tea, which included an egg and fruit, she said nothing of
the terrible story which had run like wildfire through the servants'
quarters and had turned her cold with horror.
Hobson was an autocrat in her own domain and ruled with a cast-iron rod.
"Don't you utter one word of this disgusting tale to her grace," she
had said fiercely as she had sailed through the door of the
ladies-maids' room, held meekly open for her by one of the under-maids,
who had been caught gossiping, "or back you go to England, both of
you." She turned back into the room and rattled the tray to emphasise
her orders. "I won't have my lady troubled with it, d'you hear?
Common circus trash! what has it got to do with you, I should like to
know, if she's been killed or not? That's what they all come to, as
you'll find out, if you don't take care."
She had swept from the room leaving the plump, rosy-cheeked Devonshire
lasses trembling.
Many, many years ago the duchess had taken the bright, intelligent
daughter of a Devonshire farmer on the estate into her service; trained
her and promoted her as her seniors in the lady's service had married
or been pensioned off, until she had finally risen to the post of head
maid and confidential companion.
Love and marriage had passed Maria Hobson by, but she adored her
mistress and constituted herself as dragon, sheep-dog and buffer, so as
to save her from unpleasantness or pain; at the same time issuing
orders as to health and hours which her grace usually meekly
obeyed--though you would not have taken a bet upon it with any feeling
of security.
It is curious, the ascendancy which such a type of maid can obtain over
a strong-willed mistress. Think of Abigail Hill and the influence she
had over Queen Anne, which finally ousted the great Sarah Jennings,
Duchess of Marlborough, brought disturbance into English politics and
ruin to the fortune of the Jacobites.
But at times there was a look in her mistress' eyes and a certain
atmosphere radiating from the frail little person before which Hobson
quailed, so that she said quite gently, "Tea and one letter, your
grace," when she found her sitting at the open window, looking out at
the morning sky.
But although she spoke gently and tucked an extra shawl about the bent
shoulders with a tender hand, she was thinking viciously all the same
over her mistresses leniency towards her god-daughter.
"I wish the young lady could be safely married to that proper English
gentleman. One can see he wants her, but she doesn't seem to know her
own mind. Too pleased by half she is, to my thinking, with this
country and the silly nonsense of their nasty, heathen ways!"
And she left the room with a swish of starched petticoat, when Damaris,
who had just returned from her desert ride, entered to greet her
godmother.
She knelt at the side of the chair and, encircling her in her strong
young arms, laid her cheek against the old lady's, and knelt without
movement, looking out to the desert, whilst one wrinkled old hand
stroked her head and the other turned the pages of the letter.
A piteous letter of appeal from a woman whose love had brought forth
the bitterest of bitter fruit.
". . . _Is_ there a way out, Petite _Maman_?" wrote Jill, the English
wife of Hahmed Sheikh el-Umbar. "Will you undertake the long journey
and come and see me, for who knows if together we could not find a way
to ensure my boy's happiness? I would come to you, only Hugh is near
you, and our men in the East tolerate no interference from their
women-folk. My messenger will wait for your answer. I am overwhelmed
with foreboding for Hugh my first-born. If you can, come to me.
JILL."
And as the sun rose the old lady still sat near the window, trying to
come to a decision.
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