Chapter XXII: Grenfell Goes On
Weston, tired as he was, did not sleep well that night. Although they
had a pack-horse he had carried two blankets and a bag of flour, and
when a man has marched from sunrise until dusk under a heavy burden, his shoulders, as a rule, ache distressfully. In addition to this discomfort, Grenfell's manner throughout that day's march had roused an unsettling sense of expectation in his comrades. The man had limped wearily and continually lagged behind, but he had, in spite of it, resolutely insisted on their pushing on as fast as possible. He had also looked about him with a certain suggestive curiosity every now and then, and though he had once or twice admitted that he could not positively identify anything he saw, his air of restrained eagerness had made its impression on Weston.
A half-moon had sailed up into the eastern sky when the latter wakened
and raised himself drowsily on one elbow. All round him the great
burned pines towered in black and shadowy columns against the silvery
light, and a stillness that was almost oppressive brooded over the
valley. No sound of running water came out of it, and there was not a
breath of wind. It was cool, however, and Weston drew his dusty
blanket higher about his shoulders as he glanced round the camp. Devine lay close by sleeping like a log; but Grenfell was huddled at the foot of a tree, and it became evident to his comrade that he, at least, was wide awake.
"Haven't you done enough to make you sleep?" Weston asked.
Grenfell laughed softly.
"I haven't closed my eyes. I can't keep them off the range in front of
us."
Weston looked up and saw a huge black rampart cutting sharp and clear
against the blueness of the night.
"Don't tell me that you recognize it," he said.
"Three nicks," replied Grenfell. "After the third one, a rounded peak. I can't tell whether I remember it from another time, but that description came to me as if I'd used it, and I think I must have done so. Anyway, you can see them yonder."
He broke off for a moment, and when he went on again his manner was
deprecatory.
"Since sunrise I've been troubled with a haunting sense of the
familiar, though when I found the lake with Verneille we marched
through no brûlée."
"That's years ago, and this brûlée is probably not more than twelve
months old—I mean as a brûlée," said Weston, impatiently, for the
strain of the long march was telling on him. "Anyway, you've been
half-recognizing places ever since we started on this search, and I'd
rather you didn't make half sure of anything else. In fact, I can't
stand much more of it."
Grenfell, who showed no sign of resentment, laughed again.
"As I think I told you, I've been troubled with memories that seem
half dreams. I'm not sure that's quite unusual in the case of a man
who has consumed as much whisky as I have. Besides, it's a little
difficult to distinguish between dreams and what we look upon as
realities, since the latter exist only in the perception of our
senses, which may be deceptive. They agree on that point, don't they, in places as dissimilar as India and Germany?"
"Are you sure you didn't dream about the lead?" Weston asked bluntly. "It's a point that has been troubling me for a considerable time."
"Then why did you come up with me to search for the lake?"
"I was once or twice told at home that I was a persistent imbecile. That may account for it."
"Well," said Grenfell, reflectively, "your action on one or two
occasions seems to warrant the observation—I mean when you stood the
boys off me after I'd spoiled their supper, and the other time when
you decided on my account not to stay on at the copper-mine. Still, I
want to say that while I seem to know I will not make another journey
on the gold trail, I've had a subconscious feeling of certainty since
sunrise yesterday that the lake lies just ahead of us. I know nothing
definite that justifies it, but we'll probably find out to-morrow. There's just another thing. If I leave my bones up here my share falls to you."