Surprise made Sir Edward slow of understanding--surprise and an absence of all alarm, for to his thinking Walter was a boy, and this talk of ladies, or young persons, was unintelligible in such a connection.
He said, “There is surely some strange mistake here. Walter’s--why, Walter is--too young for any nonsense of this kind. You’re--why, you must be--dreaming, Crockford! You might as well tell me that Horry--”
Here Sir Edward’s eyes turned, quite involuntarily, unintentionally upon Walter, standing up by the mantel-piece with his hands in his pockets, his face burning with a dull heat, his eyes cast down, yet watching under the eyelids every action of both his companions--a nameless air about him that spoke of guilt. He stopped short at the sight: everything in Walter’s aspect breathed guilt--the furtive watch he kept, the dull red of anger and shame burning like a fire in his face; the attitude--his hands in his pockets, clinched as if ready for a blow. The first look made Sir Edward stop bewildered, the second carried to his mind a strange, painful, unpleasant, discovery. Walter was no longer a boy! He had parted company from his father, and from all his father knew of him. This perception flashed across his mind like a sudden light. He gasped, and could say no more.
Crockford took advantage of the pause. “If I may make so bold, sir,” he said, “it’s you as hasn’t taken note of the passage of time. It ain’t wonderful. One moment your child here’s a boy at your knee, the next his heart’s set on getting married--or wuss. That’s how it goes. I’ve had a many children myself, and seen ’em grow up and buried most on ’em. Martha, she’s my youngest, she’s a good lass. As for the lads, ye can’t tell where ye are; one day it’s a peg-top and the next it’s a woman. If I may make so bold, I’ve known you man and boy for something like forty years; and I’m sorry for you, Sir Edward, that I am.”
Sir Edward heard as if he heard it not, the _bourdonnement_ of this raw rustic voice in his ears, and scarcely knew what it meant. He turned to his son without taking any notice. “Walter,” he said, with something keen, penetrating, unlike itself in his voice, “what is this? what is this? I don’t seem to understand it.” He was going to be angry presently, very angry; but in the first place it was necessary that he should know.