Oh,its easy enough,she said,descending from the pulpit and coming close to him to explain more vividly.You do it like this.Did you ever play a game of forfeits called "When is it?
where is it?what is it?"
No,never.
Ah,thats a pity,because writing a sermon is very much like playing that game.You take the text.You think,why is it?what is it?and so on.You put that down under "Generally."Then you proceed to the First,Secondly,and Thirdly.Papa wont have Fourthlys--says they are all my eye.Then you have a final Collectively,several pages of this being put in great black brackets,writing opposite,"LEAVE THIS OUT IF THE FARMERS ARE
FALLING ASLEEP."Then comes your In Conclusion,then A Few Words And I Have Done.Well,all this time you have put on the back of each page,"KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN"--I mean,she added,correcting herself,thats how I do in papas sermon-book,because otherwise he gets louder and louder,till at last he shouts like a farmer up a-field.Oh,papa is so funny in some things!
Then,after this childish burst of confidence,she was frightened,as if warned by womanly instinct,which for the moment her ardour had outrun,that she had been too forward to a comparative stranger.
Elfride saw her father then,and went away into the wind,being caught by a gust as she ascended the churchyard slope,in which gust she had the motions,without the motives,of a hoiden;the grace,without the self-consciousness,of a pirouetter.She conversed for a minute or two with her father,and proceeded homeward,Mr.Swancourt coming on to the church to Stephen.The wind had freshened his warm complexion as it freshens the glow of a brand.He was in a mood of jollity,and watched Elfride down the hill with a smile.
You little flyaway!you look wild enough now,he said,and turned to Stephen.But shes not a wild child at all,Mr.Smith.
As steady as you;and that you are steady I see from your diligence here.
I think Miss Swancourt very clever,Stephen observed.
Yes,she is;certainly,she is,said papa,turning his voice as much as possible to the neutral tone of disinterested criticism.
Now,Smith,Ill tell you something;but she mustnt know it for the world--not for the world,mind,for she insists upon keeping it a dead secret.Why,SHE WRITES MY SERMONS FOR ME OFTEN,and a very good job she makes of them!
She can do anything.
She can do that.The little rascal has the very trick of the trade.But,mind you,Smith,not a word about it to her,not a single word!
Not a word,said Smith.
Look there,said Mr.Swancourt.What do you think of my roofing?He pointed with his walking-stick at the chancel roof Did you do that,sir?
Yes,I worked in shirt-sleeves all the time that was going on.I pulled down the old rafters,fixed the new ones,put on the battens,slated the roof,all with my own hands,Worm being my assistant.We worked like slaves,didnt we,Worm?
Ay,sure,we did;harder than some here and there--hee,hee!said William Worm,cropping up from somewhere.Like slaves,a blieve--hee,hee!And werent ye foaming mad,sir,when the nails wouldnt go straight?Mighty I!There,tisnt so bad to cuss and keep it in as to cuss and let it out,is it,sir?
Well--why?
Because you,sir,when ye were a-putting on the roof,only used to cuss in your mind,which is,I suppose,no harm at all.
I dont think you know what goes on in my mind,Worm.
Oh,doant I,sir--hee,hee!Maybe Im but a poor wambling thing,sir,and cant read much;but I can spell as well as some here and there.Doant ye mind,sir,that blustrous night when ye asked me to hold the candle to ye in yer workshop,when you were making a new chair for the chancel?
Yes;what of that?
I stood with the candle,and you said you liked company,if twas only a dog or cat--maning me;and the chair wouldnt do nohow.
Ah,I remember.
No;the chair wouldnt do nohow.A was very well to look at;but,Lord!
