As Vane ended his narrative, with the doctor pacing up and down the room, and Martha fussing because the delicate cutlets she had prepared were growing cold, Aunt Hannah was seated on the carpet by her nephew’s chair, holding one of his bruised hands against her cheek, and weeping silently as she whispered, “My own brave boy!”
As she spoke, she reached up to press her lips to his, but Vane shrank away.
“No, no, aunt dear,” he said, “I’m not fit to kiss.”
“Oh, my own brave, noble boy,” she cried; and passing her arms about his neck, she kissed him fondly.
“Who’s encouraging the boy in fighting now?” cried the doctor, sharply.
“But, how could he help it, my dear?” said Aunt Hannah.
“Of course; how could he help it.” Then changing his manner, he laid his hand upon Vane’s shoulder.
“You are quite right, Vane, lad. Let them call you Weathercock if they like, but you do always point to fair weather, my boy, and turn your back on foul. No: there must be no police business. The young scoundrels have had their punishment—the right sort; and Mr Distin has got his in a way such a proud, sensitive fellow will never forget.”
“But ought not Vane to have beaten him, too?” said Aunt Hannah, naïvely.
“What!” cried the doctor, in mock horror. “Woman! You are a very glutton at revenge. Three in one afternoon? But to be serious. He was beaten, then, my dear—with forgiveness. Coals of fire upon his enemy’s head, and given him a lesson such as may form a turning point in his life. God bless you, my boy! You’ve done a finer thing to-day than it is in your power yet to grasp. You’ll think more deeply of it some day, and— Hannah, my darling, are you going to stand preaching at this poor boy all the evening, when you see he is nearly starved?”