The meeting at the Union, mentioned in the first chapter, was stormy, but it resulted in victory. The sudden summoning of the principal people in the parish was occasioned by the appearance of a "water-finder." This the chairman, a gentleman farmer of some local importance, well known in the hunting field, proceeded to explain in a disjointed, halting, and somewhat unconvincing manner. It was evident that he was half ashamed of yielding to what he knew most of his hearers would term foolish superstition, and others would fear as savouring of witchcraft and other forbidden things.
The meeting was an open one, concerning as it did, all the parish; and among others our three "loafers" of the bridge had strolled in, and sitting down on a back seat prepared to hear what was going to be said. They had come in from very different motives, and kept together from force of habit. The cripple had come because he wisely never omitted to attend anything that would afford him entertainment and change from the dull monotony of his days; the ex-seaman came, as usual, in the spirit of opposition, with the full determination of opposing whatever decision the authorities should come to; and George accompanied them merely because they asked him.
Mr. Rutland, who was late, as we know, slipped in quietly, and took a seat on a bench which was placed along the side of the room. The water-finder had just stepped on to the platform, and with a little nervous cough was beginning to explain his mission. He was a slight, spare man, of perhaps thirty years of age, with an extraordinarily sensitive face—the sort of look one sees sometimes in a great musician or dreamer—his hair fairish, inclined to red, and his complexion that which goes with such hair. There was nothing else remarkable about him but his hands, which were delicately formed, yet strong and nervous. His voice was low and pleasant, but he spoke with some hesitation, and had not the air of confidence that accompanies the necromancer or conjurer.
The vicar's keen eye took in all this at a glance, and he involuntarily turned to the audience to see how they took him. His eye fell on the three men on the bench at right angles with him. He saw Corkam arrange his face in the supercilious sneer he knew so well. He saw Farley dart a look at him to get his "cue," and then twist his own poor, pinched features into the best imitation of his "friend's" that he could accomplish. The effect was so completely artificial that the vicar could not restrain a smile of amusement. George's fair, good-natured face expressed absolutely nothing.
The water-finder's words were very simple. He protested nothing, and promised nothing. He had discovered a few years ago, he said, that he had the gift of finding water in unexpected places. His powers were not infallible, he explained, but were dependent on many things, the nature of which he was unable to determine. Possibly it was the condition of the atmosphere, possibly the state of his own health, possibly the influence of want of faith in the people who accompanied him on his quest—he was unable to account for it—but certainly there were times when he had failed.
At this point his audience shuffled impatiently with their feet, and sundry little grunts and groans were heard, and the short artificial laugh of Farley was plainly distinguishable. The water-finder ran his mild, dreamy eyes along the benches, passed without interest over Farley and Corkam, and rested for a moment on Geo.
He had heard, he said, of the dreadful pass that Heigham was likely to come to for want of water, and being in the neighbourhood on a visit to some relations, had called on Mr. Barlow and offered his services. It was for this meeting, he understood, to reject or accept them. He had nothing more to say.
Mr. Barlow then rose and proposed a show of hands. This was the signal for a general uproar, and perhaps a dozen or so hands were lifted. The water-finder looked disappointed, the chairman angry, and rough words were shouted from the audience.
"We don't want no palaverin', conjurin' chaps here," shouted some. "Down with the sin of witchcraft!" shouted another. "Duck 'im in a 'orse pond, same as they did time agone," shouted the village wag. "My, I'll make 'im swim!"
At this juncture the vicar walked up the room, and by a sign from the chairman stepped on to the platform.