“But who—who is he?” continued Lord Glenallan, holding the Antiquary with a convulsive grasp.
“Formerly I would have called him Lovel, but now he turns out to be Major Neville.”
“Whom my brother brought up as his natural son—whom he made his heir— Gracious Heaven! the child of my Eveline!”
“Hold, my lord—hold!” said Oldbuck, “do not give too hasty way to such a presumption;—what probability is there?”
“Probability? none! There is certainty! absolute certainty! The agent I mentioned to you wrote me the whole story—I received it yesterday, not sooner. Bring him, for God’s sake, that a father’s eyes may bless him before he departs.”
“I will; but for your own sake and his, give him a few moments for preparation.”
And, determined to make still farther investigation before yielding his entire conviction to so strange a tale, he sought out Major Neville, and found him expediting the necessary measures for dispersing the force which had been assembled.
“Pray, Major Neville, leave this business for a moment to Captain Wardour and to Hector, with whom, I hope, you are thoroughly reconciled” (Neville laughed, and shook hands with Hector across the table), “and grant me a moment’s audience.”
“You have a claim on me, Mr. Oldbuck, were my business more urgent,” said Neville, “for having passed myself upon you under a false name, and rewarding your hospitality by injuring your nephew.”
“You served him as he deserved,” said Oldbuck—“though, by the way, he showed as much good sense as spirit to-day—Egad! if he would rub up his learning, and read Caesar and Polybus, and the Stratagemata Polyaeni, I think he would rise in the army—and I will certainly lend him a lift.”