“Yours,
“Adrian.”
“My Dear Adrian,
“It would be better if you could come back here before deciding to go to London. Father is writing to you, and you will probably see from his letter that he particularly wants you at home. I hope you are not in trouble, but Father is certainly upset about something, and you will only make matters worse by going off in a hurry. Besides, I think he would quite likely follow you.
“Your affectionate sister,
“Lucilla Morchard.”
“Dear Lucilla,
“If you hear of me doing something desperate, you may tell Father that he has only himself to thank! I now know what he and old Duffle have been up to, between them, and I may tell you that I do not intend to put up with this sort of thing any longer. Father doesn’t seem to realize that I am a man, and in grim earnest over some things, and he and old Duffle have now utterly scotched my chances of happiness for life, although I daresay without realizing what they were doing. Olga is the only girl I shall ever love, and if I have lost her I do not care what I do or what becomes of me, and you may tell Father so. If this is what religion leads to, you can also tell him that I am utterly off it for life. That is what they have done, by their interference with my affairs, because I am almost sure Olga would at least have become engaged to me, if she had been let alone, and not bullied by her father and mother, and threatened with poverty if she married me. As you know, it needn’t have been anything of the sort, if my plans had worked out all right, and we could have had Stear, but I am completely off the Church, in any shape or form, so that is what Father has done, whether he knows it or not!!!
“You will, I suppose, be upset at this letter being so bitter in tone, but I may say that my faith in human nature is utterly shattered for good and all, and this has been done by my own father!! I am coming home on Monday and not before, so it’s no use father dictating to me.
“Yours,
“Adrian.”
“My Dearest Adrian,
“I don’t understand why Lucilla tells me that you are returning home on Monday, when you know it is my wish, distinctly expressed in my letter to you two days ago, that you should be here on Saturday, so that we may spend the Sunday together. Unless you have a very valid reason for disregarding my wishes, I must insist, for your own sake, upon your complying with them. I do so want you to be considerate, quite apart from the question of dutifulness—for instance, it is quite a little thing, but you don’t say what time you are arriving here, and yet you surely know that this makes a difference with regard to questions of meals, etc., in a small household such as ours. It is only want of thought, dear lad, but do try and correct this fault. I have so often had to reprove myself for the like small negligences that it makes me anxious to see the same tendency in you. This is not a lecture, my dear boy, but only a reminder, from one who has had to be both mother and father to you.