THE THIRD SHIP.

We return to Ruan church, whence this history started. The parson was
there in his surplice, by the altar; the bride was there in her white
frock, by the chancel rails; her father, by her side, was looking at his
watch; and the parishioners thronged the nave, shuffling their feet and
loudly speculating. For the bridegroom had not appeared.

Ruby's face was white as her frock. Parson Babbage kept picking up the
heavy Prayer-book, opening it, and laying it down impatiently.
Occasionally, as one of the congregation scraped an impatient foot, a
metallic sound made itself heard, and the buzz of conversation would
sink for a moment, as if by magic.

For beneath the seats, and behind the women's gowns, the whole pavement
of the church was covered with a fairly representative collection of
cast-off kitchen utensils--old kettles, broken cake-tins, frying-pans,
saucepans--all calculated to emit dismal sounds under percussion.
Scattered among these were ox-bells, rook-rattles, a fog-horn or two,
and a tin trumpet from Liskeard fair. Explanation is simple: the
outraged feelings of the parish were to be avenged by a shal-lal as
bride and bridegroom left the church. Ruby knew nothing of the storm
brewing for her, but Mary Jane, whose ears had been twice boxed that
morning, had heard a whisper of it on her way down to the church, and
was confirmed in her fears by observing the few members of the
congregation who entered after her. Men and women alike suffered from
an unwonted corpulence and tightness of raiment that morning, and each
and all seemed to have cast the affliction off as they arose from their
knees. It was too late to interfere, so she sat still and trembled.