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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
135
These
were
my
reflections,
and
many
others
besides,
as
I
sat
weary
at
the
window
that
cold
spring
night,
long
after
the
lieutenant
who
had
occasioned
them
was
slumbering
peacefully
on
the
other
side
of
the
house.
Thoughts
of
the
next
day,
and
enforced
bed,
and
the
bowls
of
gruel
to
be
disposed
of
if
the
servants
were
to
believe
in
my
illness,
made
my
head
ache.
Eating
gruel
pour
la
galerie
is
a
pitiable
state
to
be
reduced
to--surely
no
lower
depths
of
humiliation
are
conceivable.
And
then,
just
as
I
was
drearily
remembering
how
little
I
loved
gruel,
there
was
a
sudden
sound
of
wheels
rolling
swiftly
round
the
corner
of
the
house,
a
great
rattling
and
trampling
in
the
still
night
over
the
stones,
and
tearing
open
the
window
and
leaning
out,
there,
sitting
in
a
station
fly,
and
apparelled
to
my
glad
vision
in
celestial
light,
I
beheld
the
Man
of
Wrath,
come
home
unexpectedly
to
save
me.
"Oh,
dear
Man
of
Wrath,"
I
cried,
hanging
out
into
the
moonlight
with
outstretched
arms,
"how
much
nicer
thou
art
than
lieutenants!
I
never
missed
thee
more--I
never
longed
for
thee
more--I
never
loved
thee
more
--come
up
here
quickly
that
I
may
kiss
thee!--"
October
1st.--Last
night
after
dinner,
when
we
were
in
the
library,
I
said,
"Now
listen
to
me,
Man
of
Wrath."
"Well?"
he
inquired,
looking
up
at
me
from
the
depths
of
his
chair
as
I
stood
before
him.
"Do
you
know
that
as
a
prophet
you
are
a
failure?
Five
months
ago
to-day
you
sat
among
the
wallflowers
and
scoffed
at
the
idea
of
my
being
able
to
enjoy
myself
alone
a
whole
summer
through.
Is
the
summer
over?"
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