In point of fact, Mrs. Bagley was the relict of an old servant of the earl’s.
When her husband died Lord Ethalwood made her a present of the habitation in which she now resided, and in addition to this he settled on her a small annuity, which sufficed for all her wants.
The earl never let any of his dependents come to want, and this was only one instance out of numberless others of his kindness in this respect.
Mrs. Bagley lived a secluded, almost solitary life, and yet contrived to acquaint herself with every tittle of parish gossip. She knew everything, and anybody wanting information need only to consult her.
Whenever there was a mystery it was to old Mother Bagley that the cronies of the village resorted, as if she had been a sibyl or a priestess of the oracle of Delphos.
The interior of her house was remarkably clean and neat, the articles of furniture were so many varied mirrors, her tiny poker, tongs, and shovel were as bright as a set of surgical instruments, and the very smoke seemed to go carefully up the chimney, curling and twisting and rolling itself into the smallest possible compass, as if doing its best not to leave any soot behind.
Mrs. Bagley was a character in her way—one of those oddities one seldom meets with nowadays. She possessed a Bible, prayer-book, a pair of spectacles, and a snuff-box.
With these she amused herself all day long, or, to speak more correctly, during that portion of it upon which she was not otherwise engaged, for, being a lady of gregarious habits for all her solitary life, she had innumerable droppers in, who were, of course, village gossips.
Like most old peasant women, she was an inveterate tea drinker, and her favourite beverage was always brewing by the fireside.
The teapot was a round, red, little thing about the size and shape of an apple dumpling, with a spout like a baby’s finger, and the lid made fast to the handle with a silver chain.