He looked about him. There must be something in the room that would show him. Not many things here. The little case with some books, the pictures of “Napoleon on the Bellerophon” and “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the white bed and wash-hand stand, the chest of drawers. . . . Then his eye fell on the play-box. He went to it and opened it.
Jeremy gave a long, convulsive sigh. Then, between his sobs: “Father—please. I’ll get the money. I will really. I didn’t know it was wrong. Those are mine—they break, two of them. I’ll get the money. I will really. Please, father.”
A word here is needed in defence of Mr. Cole. A word is not in truth necessary. His action was inevitable. He truly loved his son, and because of that very love he was now shocked to the depth of his soul. His son was a thief. His son had lied and stolen. He was old enough to know what he was about. To himself, who had been brought up in a poverty that was martyrdom and an honesty that was fanatical, no sin could be worse than this save only the sins of the flesh. For more than two years now he had been troubled by Jeremy, seeing many signs in him of a nature very different from his own, signs of independence, rebellion and, as it seemed to him, hardness of heart and selfishness. Now the boy was a thief, deliberately spending money that did not belong to him in the hopes that his parents would forget. . . .
He bent over his play-box, saw the parcels so neatly laid out there, took one up in his hand. He looked back at his son.
“What is this, Jeremy?”
There was no answer.
“Did you get these things with the money?”
“Yes, father.” Then he said, “They’re presents for Christmas.”
“Presents!”
Mr. Cole took up first one parcel, then another, holding them up to the light. Then, very slowly, with that deliberation with which he did everything, he undid the parcels. Jeremy said nothing, only stood there, his face white and dirty where the tears had left marks, his legs apart, his fists clenched.