“But what is that dreadful noise?” she persisted.
“Well, it is only the gentlemen going to bed,” said I.
Just then, sounds came through the door, which showed that they were close outside. Somebody—so far as I could guess from what we heard—was determined to sit down on the stairs, and Sam was trying to prevail upon him to go quietly to bed. All sorts of queer things were mixed up with it—hunting cries, bits of songs, invectives against Hanoverians and Dissenters, and I scarcely know what else.
“Who is that wretched creature?” whispered Flora to me.
I had recognised the voice, and was able to answer.
“It is Mr Bagnall,” said I, “the vicar of Dornthwaite.”
“A minister!” was Flora’s answer, in an indescribable tone.
“Oh, that does not make any difference,” I replied, “with the clergy about here. Mr Digby is too old for it now, but I have heard say that when he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody.”
At last Sam’s patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and Will between them lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to bed despite his struggles. At least I supposed so from what I heard. About ten minutes later, Sam and Will passed our door on their way back.
“Yon’s a bonnie loon to ca’ a minister,” I heard Sam say as he went past. “But what could ye look for in a Prelatist?”