“Yes,” said Valentine; “but not together.”

“No; you are right,” John answered, and he took old Daniel Mortimer’s letter and laid it into the place he had prepared, covering it with the glowing cinders, then with the poker he pushed the other between the lower bars, and he and Valentine watched it till every atom was consumed.

There was no more for him to tell; John Mortimer thought he knew enough.  Valentine felt what a relief this was, but also that John’s amazement by no means subsided.  He was trying hard to be gentle, to be moderately calm; he resolutely forbore from any comment on Valentine’s conduct; but he could not help expressing his deep regret that the matter should have been confided to any one—­even to Brandon—­and finding, perhaps, that his horror and indignation were getting the better of him, he suddenly started up, and declared that he would walk about in the gallery for awhile.  “For,” he said pointedly to Valentine, “as you were remarking to me this morning, there is a good deal that ought to be done at once,” and out he dashed into the fresh spring air, and strode about in the long wooden gallery, with a vigour and vehemence that did not promise much for the quietness of their coming discussion.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, went by—­almost half an hour—­before John Mortimer came in again.

Valentine looked up and saw, as John shut himself in, that he looked almost as calm as usual, and that his face had regained its customary hue.

“My difficulty, of course, is Emily,” he said.  “If this had occurred a year ago it would have been simpler.”  Valentine wondered what he meant; but he presently added in a tone, however, as of one changing the subject, “Well, my dear fellow, you were going to have a talk with me, you know, about the making of your will.  You remarked that you possessed two thousand pounds.”

Valentine wondered at his coolness, he spoke so completely as usual.

“And what would you have me do with that?” he answered with a certain directness and docility that made John Mortimer pause; he perceived that whatever he proposed would be done.

“I think if you left a thousand pounds to the old aunt who brought your mother up, and has a very scanty pittance, it would be worthy of your kindly nature, and no more than her due.”

“Well, John, I’ll do it.  And the other thousand?”

“Louisa has married a rich man’s son, and I have made a handsome settlement on Emily, but your sister Lizzie has nothing.”

“I will leave her the other thousand; and—­and now, John, there is the estate—­there is Melcombe.  I thought you had a right to know that there had been a disadvantage as regarded my inheritance of it, but you are perfectly——­” He hesitated for a word.

John turned his sentence rather differently for him, and went on with it.  “But you feel that I am perfectly entitled to give you my opinion?”