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Page 14
"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," he said, in a deep, changed
voice.
"By the turtles of Tasman, he was a man," Frederick repeated; nor did he
stumble over the unaccustomed oath.
THE ETERNITY OF FORMS
A strange life has come to an end in the death of Mr. Sedley Crayden, of
Crayden Hill.
Mild, harmless, he was the victim of a strange delusion that kept him
pinned, night and day, in his chair for the last two years of his life.
The mysterious death, or, rather, disappearance, of his elder brother,
James Crayden, seems to have preyed upon his mind, for it was shortly
after that event that his delusion began to manifest itself.
Mr. Crayden never vouchsafed any explanation of his strange conduct.
There was nothing the matter with him physically; and, mentally, the
alienists found him normal in every way save for his one remarkable
idiosyncrasy. His remaining in his chair was purely voluntary, an act of
his own will. And now he is dead, and the mystery remains unsolved.
--_Extract from the Newton Courier-Times._
Briefly, I was Mr. Sedley Crayden's confidential servant and valet for
the last eight months of his life. During that time he wrote a great
deal in a manuscript that he kept always beside him, except when he
drowsed or slept, at which times he invariably locked it in a desk
drawer close to his hand.
I was curious to read what the old gentleman wrote, but he was too
cautious and cunning. I never got a peep at the manuscript. If he were
engaged upon it when I attended on him, he covered the top sheet with a
large blotter. It was I who found him dead in his chair, and it was then
that I took the liberty of abstracting the manuscript. I was very
curious to read it, and I have no excuses to offer.
After retaining it in my secret possession for several years, and after
ascertaining that Mr. Crayden left no surviving relatives, I have
decided to make the nature of the manuscript known. It is very long, and
I have omitted nearly all of it, giving only the more lucid fragments.
It bears all the earmarks of a disordered mind, and various experiences
are repeated over and over, while much is so vague and incoherent as to
defy comprehension. Nevertheless, from reading it myself, I venture to
predict that if an excavation is made in the main basement, somewhere in
the vicinity of the foundation of the great chimney, a collection of
bones will be found which should very closely resemble those which James
Crayden once clothed in mortal flesh.
--_Statement of Rudolph Heckler._
Here follows the excerpts from the manuscript, made and arranged by
Rudolph Heckler:
I never killed my brother. Let this be my first word and my last. Why
should I kill him? We lived together in unbroken harmony for twenty
years. We were old men, and the fires and tempers of youth had long
since burned out. We never disagreed even over the most trivial things.
Never was there such amity as ours. We were scholars. We cared nothing
for the outside world. Our companionship and our books were
all-satisfying. Never were there such talks as we held. Many a night we
have sat up till two and three in the morning, conversing, weighing
opinions and judgments, referring to authorities--in short, we lived at
high and friendly intellectual altitudes.
* * * * *
He disappeared. I suffered a great shock. Why should he have
disappeared? Where could he have gone? It was very strange. I was
stunned. They say I was very sick for weeks. It was brain fever. This
was caused by his inexplicable disappearance. It was at the beginning of
the experience I hope here to relate, that he disappeared.
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