“Well ... anyhow, I don’t.”
“Then we are not sweethearts. I shan’t kiss you, and you must just leave Jim Bates alone.”
Martin was humiliated. He remained silent and angry during the next minute. By a quick turn in the conversation Angèle had placed him in a position of rivalry with another boy, one with whom she had not exchanged a word.
“Look here,” he said, after taking thought, “if I kiss your cheek, may I lick Jim Bates?”
This magnanimous offer was received with derision.
“I forbid you to do either. If you do, I’ll tell your father.”
The child had discovered already the fear with which Martin regarded the stern, uncompromising Methodist yeoman—a fear, almost a resentment, due to Bolland’s injudicious attempts to guide a mere boy into the path of serious and precise religion. Never had Martin found the daily reading of Scripture such a burden as during the past few days. The preparations for the feast, the cricket-playing, running and jumping of the boys practicing for prizes—these disturbing influences interfered sadly with the record of David’s declining years.
Even now, with Angèle’s sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears, he was compelled to leave her and hurry to the front kitchen, where the farmer was waiting with the Bible opened. At the back door he paused and looked at her. She blew him a kiss.
“Good boy!” she cried. “Mind you learn your lesson.”