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Updated: June 4, 2025
Seeing that Septimus had a sentimental side to his character, Emmy gradually took him into her confidence, until Septimus knew things that Zora did not dream of. Zora, who had been married, and had seen the world from Nunsmere Pond to the crater of Mount Vesuvius, treated her sister with matronly indulgence, as a child to whom Great Things were unrevealed.
She had no desire to pet the Vicar, but he was less unbearable than the Literary Man from London whom he had brought to call on his parishioners. Zora disliked to be called a parishioner. She disliked many things in Nunsmere. Her mother, Mrs. Oldrieve, however, loved Nunsmere, adored the Vicar, and found awe-inspiring in his cleverness the Literary Man from London.
He waved his hand in the direction of the village and said, Napoleonically: "I'll look after Nunsmere. I have the motor here. We can go all over the country. Will you come?" "On one condition." "And that?" "That you won't spread the Cure among our Surrey villages, and that you'll talk of something else all the time." He rose and put out his hand. "I accept," he cried frankly. "I'm not a fool.
"You've got to do what you're told," said Zora, conclusively. She noticed a shade of anxiety cross his face. "Is there anything else?" "Wiggleswick. I don't know what's to become of him." "He can come to Nunsmere and lodge with the local policeman," said Zora. On the evening before they started from Paris she received a letter addressed in a curiously feminine hand.
In the soothing air of Nunsmere, however, he slept, in long dead stretches, as a tired man sleeps, in spite of trains which screeched past the bottom of his lawn. Their furious unrest enhanced the peace of village things. He began to love the little backwater of the earth whose stillness calmed the fever of life.
How could he walk by her side saying nothing, like a dumb jailer? He had better go back to Nunsmere and leave her to die by the wayside. It was all she asked of Heaven. "Oh, God have pity on me," she moaned, and rocked herself to and fro. Septimus stood for a time tongue-tied in acute distress. This was his first adventure in knight-errantry and he had served before neither as page nor squire.
He pondered for some hours, then he sighed and sought consolation in his bassoon; but after a few bars of "Annie Laurie" he put the unedifying instrument back in its corner and went out for a walk. It was a starry night of frost. Nunsmere lay silent as Bethlehem; and a star hung low in the east.
All have long casement windows, front gardens in which grow stocks and phlox and sunflowers and hollyhocks and roses; and a red-tiled path leads from the front gate to the entrance porch. Nunsmere is very quiet and restful.
"Lord, no," said Septimus. "You don't wish you had never set eyes on me?" "My dear girl!" said Septimus. "And you wouldn't rather go on living quietly at Nunsmere and not bother about me any more? Do tell me the truth." Septimus's hand went to his hair. He was unversed in the ways of women. "I thought all that was settled long ago," he said. "I'm such a useless creature.
He missed a thousand gossamer trifles each one so imperceptible, all added together so significant. He was not in the least cosy and comfortable with his old villain of a serving-man. Thus he looked forward, in his twilight way, to Emmy's coming. He would live, perhaps, sometimes in Nunsmere and sometimes in London.
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