The Master of Silence by Irving Bacheller
The Master of Silence by Irving Bacheller
Near the end of my fourteenth year I was apprenticed to Valentine, King & Co., cotton importers, Liverpool, as a "pair of legs." My father had died suddenly, leaving me and his property in the possession of my stepmother and my guardian. It was in deference to their urgent advice that I left my home in London (with little reluctance, since my life there had never been happy) to study the art of money-making. On arriving at the scene of my expected triumphs I was assigned to the somewhat humble position of errand boy.
In common with other boys who performed a like service for the firm I was known as "a pair of legs." Lodgings of a rather modest character had been secured for me in the western outskirts of the city near the banks of the Mersey. I was slow to make friends, and my evenings were spent in the perusal of some story books, which I had brought with me from London. One night, not long after the beginning of my new life in Liverpool, I was lying in bed listening to the wind and rain beating over the housetops and driving against the windows, when suddenly there came a loud rap at my door.
"Who's there?" I demanded, starting out of bed.
As I heard no answer, I repeated my inquiry and stood a moment listening. I could hear nothing, however, but the wind and rain. Lighting a candle and dressing myself with all haste, I opened the door. I could just discern the figure of a bent old man standing in the hallway, when a gust of wind suddenly put out the candle. The door leading to the street was open, and the old man was probably a straggler come to importune me for shelter or for something to eat. As I relit the candle, he entered my room and stood facing me, but he did not speak. His clothes were dripping and he was blinking at me with strange, gleaming eyes. His hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face the deathly pallor of it frightened me. His general appearance was more than startling; it was uncanny.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
Greatly to my surprise he made no reply, but with a look of pain and great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he withdrew from his pocket a letter which he extended to me. The envelope was wet and dirty. It was directed to Kendric Lane, Esq., No. Old Broad street, London, England. The address was crossed and "22 Kirkland street, Liverpool," written under it in the familiar hand of my guardian. A strange proceeding! thought I. Was the letter intended for my father, who was long dead, and who had removed from that address more than ten years ago? The old man began to grin and nod as I examined the superscription. I broke the seal on the envelope and found the following letter, undated, and with no indication of the place from which it was sent:
"Dear Brother-I need your help. Come to me at once if you can. Consequences of vast importance to me and to mankind depend upon your prompt compliance. I cannot tell you where I am. The bearer will bring you to me. Follow him and ask no questions. Moreover, be silent, like him, regarding the subject of this letter. If you can come, procure passage in the first steamer for New York. My messenger is provided with funds. Your loving brother,
"Revis Lane."
I had often heard my father speak of my uncle Revis, who went to America almost twenty years before I was born. Now he was my nearest living relative. No news of him had reached us for many years before my father died. I was familiar with his handwriting and the specimen before me was either genuine, or remarkably like it. If genuine he had evidently not heard of my father's death.
Extraordinary as the message was, the messenger was more so. He sat peering at me with a strange, half-crazed expression on his face.
"When did you leave my uncle?" I asked.
He sat as if unconscious that I had spoken.
I drew my chair to his side and repeated the words in a loud voice, but he did not seem to hear me. Evidently the old man could neither hear nor speak. In a moment he began groping in his pockets, and presently handed me a card which contained the following words:
"If you can come, tear this card in halves and return the right half to him."
I examined the card carefully. The words were undoubtedly in my uncle's handwriting. The back of the card was covered with strange characters in red ink. I tore the card as directed and handed him the right half.
He held it up to the light and examined it carefully, then put it away in a pocket of his waistcoat. The look of pain returned to his face, and he coughed feebly as if suffering from a severe cold. The hour being late I intimated by pantomime that I desired him to occupy my bed. He understood me readily enough and began feebly to remove his clothing, while I prepared a sofa for myself. He was soon sound asleep, but I lay awake long after the light was extinguished. He was evidently quite ill, and I determined to go for a physician at the first appearance of daylight. As soon as possible I would go with him to my uncle. There were no ties to detain me, and it was clearly my duty to do so. Perhaps my uncle was in some great peril. If so, I might be of service to him.
When I arose in the morning my strange lodger seemed to be sleeping quietly. His face looked pale and ghastly in the light of day. I stepped close to his bed and, laying my hand upon his brow, was horrified to discover that he was dead. What was I to do? I sat down to think, trembling with fright. I must call in a policeman and tell him all I knew about my strange visitor. No, not all; I must not tell him about the letter, thought I. My uncle might not wish it to be published to the world. I ran out upon the street and told the first officer I met how the old man had rapped at my door during the storm; how I had given him my bed out of pity, and how I had discovered on awaking in the morning that he was dead.
That day the body was taken to the morgue. The sum of L100 were found in his pockets, a part of which gave him a decent burial. But while he had gone to his long rest, he had sown in my mind the seed of unrest. I went about my work clinging to the thread of a mystery half told. Whither would it lead me?
Strange as that messenger had seemed, he was certainly a good man to carry secrets.
Vergilius: A Tale of the Coming of Christ by Irving Bacheller
Abandoned as a child and orphaned by murder, Kathryn swore she'd reclaim every shred of her stolen birthright. When she returned, society called her an unpolished love-child, scoffing that Evan had lost his mind to marry her. Only Evan knew the truth: the quiet woman he cradled like porcelain hid secrets enough to set the city trembling. She doubled as a legendary healer, an elusive hacker, and the royal court's favorite perfumer. At meetings, the directors groaned at the lovey-dovey couple, "Does she really have to be here?" Evan shrugged. "Happy wife, happy life." Soon her masks fell, and those who sneered bowed in awe.
Gabriela learned her boyfriend had been two-timing her and writing her off as a brainless bimbo, so she drowned her heartache in reckless adventure. One sultry blackout night she tumbled into bed with a stranger, then slunk away at dawn, convinced she'd succumbed to a notorious playboy. She prayed she'd never see him again. Yet the man beneath those sheets was actually Wesley, the decisive, ice-cool, unshakeable CEO who signed her paychecks. Assuming her heart was elsewhere, Wesley returned to the office cloaked in calm, but every polite smile masked a dark surge of possessive jealousy.
Sophie stepped in for her sister and married a man known for his disfigured looks and reckless past. On their wedding day, his family turned their backs on him, and the town laughed behind their hands, certain the marriage would collapse. But Sophie's career soared, and their love only deepened. Later, during a high-profile event, the CEO of some conglomerate took off his mask, revealing Sophie's husband to be a global sensation. *** Adrian had no interest in his arranged wife and had disguised himself in hopes she would bail. But when Sophie tried to walk away, Adrian broke down and whispered, "Please, Sophie, don't go. One kiss, and I'll give you the world."
Everyone in town knew Amelia had chased Jaxton for years, even etching his initials on her skin. When malicious rumors swarmed, he merely straightened his cuff links and ordered her to kneel before the woman he truly loved. Seething with realization, she slammed her engagement ring down on his desk and walked away. Not long after, she whispered "I do" to a billionaire, their wedding post crashing every feed. Panic cracked Jaxton. "She's using you to spite me," he spat. The billionaire just smiled. "Being her sword is my honor."
Five years into marriage, Hannah caught Vincent slipping into a hotel with his first love-the woman he never forgot. The sight told her everything-he'd married her only for her resemblance to his true love. Hurt, she conned him into signing the divorce papers and, a month later, said, "Vincent, I'm done. May you two stay chained together." Red-eyed, he hugged her. "You came after me first." Her firm soon rocketed toward an IPO. At the launch, Vincent watched her clasp another man's hand. In the fitting room, he cornered her, tears burning in his eyes. "Is he really that perfect? Hannah, I'm sorry... marry me again."
Sunlit hours found their affection glimmering, while moonlit nights ignited reckless desire. But when Brandon learned his beloved might last only half a year, he coolly handed Millie divorce papers, murmuring, "This is all for appearances; we'll get married again once she's calmed down." Millie, spine straight and cheeks dry, felt her pulse go hollow. The sham split grew permanent; she quietly ended their unborn child and stepped into a new beginning. Brandon unraveled, his car tearing down the street, unwilling to let go of the woman he'd discarded, pleading for her to look back just once.
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