The Deep Lake Mystery

“Let’s go right over there,” March suggested. “It’s only fair to end Miss Alma’s misery and suspense as soon as possible.”

Still dazed and wondering, I watched the others recall Doctor Greenway and give him back the paper he had produced, and then we went away – back to Keeley’s place, and into a boat and over to Whistling Reeds with all possible speed.

The glum boatmaster greeted us surlily, as usual, but March paid no attention and made straight for the house.

His ring was answered by Merry herself, and she looked very perturbed and anxious.

“I’m glad you’ve come, gentlemen,” she said. “We are in great trouble.”

It was then that I took the helm. As Alma’s fiancé, for I so considered myself, it was my right and my duty to take matters in charge.

“Mrs. Merivale,” I said, simply, “we know all about Miss Alda.”

She staggered back a step and then a look of relief passed over her strong, gaunt face.

“Yes, sir,” she said, apparently accustomed to accept the word of her superiors. “Then you can advise us, sir. Miss Alda is took very bad.”

“Do you want a doctor?” asked March, hurriedly.

“No, sir, a doctor can do nothing – nothing at all.”

“What can we do?” Keeley asked, eagerly.

“I don’t know yet – perhaps if you’d just wait down here, till I see how she is now – ”

“Merry,” called a man’s voice from upstairs, and she hurried away.

I recognized the tones of John Merivale and I did not offer to go upstairs with the nurse, knowing she would call us, if necessary.

I longed to be with Alma, to comfort and care for her, but I could not intrude uninvited.

But after we had waited perhaps a half hour, Alma came downstairs and out to the porch where we sat.

She was composed, but with a new sadness in her eyes and a new droop to her lovely lips.

“I will tell you all,” she said, quietly, as she sat down, opposite to the three of us. “Since you know of my sister’s existence, there is no more occasion for secrecy.”

“Take it easy, Miss Remsen,” said March, with well-meant kindness, and Keeley rose, and then went and sat beside her.

I had an instant’s flash of jealousy, then realized it was better so. This ordeal had to be gone through with, and were I near her, I should have been unable to resist the impulse to clasp her in my arms in spite of the others’ presence.

Kee seemed to give her courage by his sympathy, and she began her story.

“I am so alone,” she prefaced it, “that I must tell it all in my own way. It is a strange story, but here are the facts. When my sister and I had scarlet fever, she did not die, but she at that time began to show symptoms of dementia praecox. My mother learned this, and knew the inevitable progress and end of the malady. So she declared that her little girl was dead to her and dead to the world, and should remain so, apparently. She therefore, with the knowledge and permission of Uncle Sampson, pretended that the child had died, and ever after kept her hidden from all but the few servants who knew about it. Uncle Sampson was very kind; I learned later that he thought my mother demented also and that’s why he humoured her so. But she was not, Doctor Rogers will tell you that. The years went by, and while my mother made a pretense of sorrowing for her dead child and often visited the little grave, she had great solace in taking care of my twin, Alda, and doing everything to make her life happy and pleasant. At Pleasure Dome, the grounds and house are so enormous it was not difficult to keep up the pretence and all went well until my mother died. As she left Alda to me, with an injunction to guard her as my life, I have tried to do all I could to obey her wishes. And I managed beautifully until Uncle Sampson wanted to marry and bring a wife home. There was only one thing to do, so we did it. I moved over to this secluded spot, and lived here, keeping Alda’s existence still a secret. The trouble came when Uncle Sampson determined to tell Mrs. Dallas about Alda. Uncle thought it dishonourable not to tell her, and I feared if she knew it, the secret would be a secret no longer. Uncle and I quarrelled about this, the last time I ever saw him.”

Emotion almost overcame Alma at this point, but she bravely controlled herself and went on.

“I told Merry about the quarrel, and Alda chanced to overhear me. You must realize that when she is not in the attacks of dementia she is as sane as you or I. But she got it into her head that Uncle Sampson had offended or injured me, and she resolved, I’ve learned from her since, that she would avenge that insult. Never before had she been inclined to homicidal mania, never did we think of her as becoming menacing or dangerous – Doctor Rogers would not have left her except that he thought she would go right along as she has been for years. A fit of fierce anger now and then, or a mad tempest of rage and foolish actions, always followed by a period of exhaustion and many days of languor. But this time, the disease took a new turn, and Alda went over to Pleasure Dome, taking my key to let herself in. Like all unbalanced brains, hers has a crafty slyness and she is very cunning when she wishes to be. She, I know now, for she has told me, read a story about a man who was killed by a nail driven in his head. Her poor, distorted mind chose to imitate that act, and she took with her a nail and a mallet. She did kill Uncle Sampson, as he slept, she put all those strange things round about him, she threw his watch in the water pitcher – she is always throwing things away – and then she took the waistcoats, which she coveted, for her fancy work, the Totem Pole, which she admired, and finding his door locked – she had locked it herself – she stepped up on the window sill and dived into the lake. She is a perfect mermaid in the water; she can dive anywhere and swim for any length of time and under any conditions.”

“She had thrown out the waistcoats first?” asked March.

“Had she? I daresay. She was a little lame just then, having twisted her ankle a bit, but she swam to her canoe, got in it and paddled home in safety.”

“You didn’t miss her while she was absent?” Keeley inquired, interestedly.

“No, indeed. She hadn’t been out at night lately, though at one time she did have the habit. She usually occupies the guest room, but when I have friends staying here, we keep her in a room in the third story. It is a pleasant room, but soundproof and securely barred. She was there during the funeral.”

“Then you knew nothing of the tragedy until next day?”

“Nothing. And even then, when Mrs. Fenn called up and told me, I didn’t think of Alda. I supposed it was heart failure or apoplexy. But when I learned of the nail I suspected the truth, and later, Alda told me all. She has no regret – I mean, her sense of right and wrong is so clouded now that she cannot think clearly. Her mentality has dwindled rapidly of late, and even now – she is sleeping after a sedative – I think she will not recover her mind to the extent of sanity she has shown of late. I’m not sure I am telling you this so you can understand it, but I am so stunned, so dazed to think the time has come to tell it, that I want only to tell it truthfully and all at once, I don’t want to have to go over it again – ”

Merivale appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Alma,” she said, gravely, and in solemn tone, “Miss Alda is going.”

Alma rose, not hastily, but with a sweet dignity, and turning to me, said: “Come with me, Gray.”

It was like a chrism; I felt sanctified to be chosen to stand at her side in this supreme moment.

The others followed us, but I did not know it then.

Alma and I went up the stairs together and she turned toward the guest room.

There on the bed lay the counterpart of my own darling. I knew now that it was Alda whom I had seen that night in the canoe; it was Alda whom Posy May and her friends had seen in tantrums with the nurse, it was Alda who – poor demented, irresponsible child – had killed Sampson Tracy, in blind imitation of the story she had read about the nail.

She was beautiful, even as Alma was beautiful, but the light in her eyes was not the light of reason, rather the weird light of visions seen by a deficient mentality. But even as we looked, the restless eyes closed, the restless body subsided into stillness, and a coma set in, from which Alda Remsen never awakened.

We sent for a doctor, but there was nothing to be done, and though she lingered for two days, the spirit was at last set free, Alda was released, and Alma’s long and ghastly term of servitude was over.

It has ever since been my pleasure and duty to bring only sunshine into that life that knew no real sunshine for many long years.

Alma felt she never wanted to see Pleasure Dome again, so the place was sold and we travelled in many lands, returning at last to found a home far removed from any memories of painful association.

The Moores are still our dearest friends, and the Merivales our staunch henchmen and caretakers; while Alma and I, sufficient to one another, take for our motto: “All for Love, and the World Well Lost!”

THE END