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Texts in Computer Science

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Department of Computer Science, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY, USA

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Wei Qi Yan

Computational Methods for Deep

Learning
Theoretic, Practice and Applications
1st ed. 2021
Wei Qi Yan
Auckland University of Technology, Auckland, New Zealand

ISSN 1868-0941 e-ISSN 1868-095X

Texts in Computer Science
ISBN 978-3-030-61080-7 e-ISBN 978-3-030-61081-4
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-61081-4

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive

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Preface
This book was drafted based on my recent lectures, talks, and seminars
for our postgraduate students at the Auckland University of Technology
(AUT), New Zealand. We integrate the materials of deep learning and
machine learning as well as artificial neural networks together, refine
the content, and publish this book so that more postgraduate students,
especially those students who are working for their theses can benefit
from our research and teaching work for the purpose of enlightening
their projects.
In this book, we organize our stuff and tell our story from easy to
difficult in mathematics; we prepare our contents for knowledge
transfer from the viewpoint of machine intelligence. We start from
understanding artificial neural networks with the design of neurons
and the activation functions, then explain the mechanism of deep
learning using advanced mathematics. At the end of each chapter, we
especially emphasize on how to use Python-based platforms and the
latest MATLAB toolboxes for implementing the deep learning
algorithms; we also list the questions we concern for thinking and
discussion.
Before reading this book, we strongly encourage our readers to
learn the knowledge of postgraduate mathematics, especially those
fundamental subjects like mathematical analysis, linear algebra,
optimizations, computational methods, differential geometry, manifold,
information theory as well as basic algebra, functional analysis,
graphical models, etc. The computational knowledge will assist us in
understanding not only this book but also relevant journal articles and
conference papers in the field of deep learning.
This book was written for research students and engineers as well
as computer scientists who are interested in computational approaches
of deep learning for theoretic analysis and practical development. More
generally, this book is also apt for those researchers who are interested
in machine intelligence, pattern analysis, computer vision, Natural
Language Processing (NLP), and robotics.
Wei Qi Yan
Auckland, New Zealand
September 2020
Acknowledgements
Thanks to our peer colleagues and students whose materials were
referenced and who have given invaluable comments on this book.
Special thanks to my supervised students: Mr. J. Wang, Dr. Y. Zhang, Mr.
J. Lu, Mr. D. Shen, Mr. K. Zheng, Ms. Y. Ren, Mr. R. Li, Mr. P. Li, Mr. Z. Liu,
Ms. Y. Shen, Ms. H. Wang, Mr. C. Xin, Ms. Q. Zhang, Mr. C. Liu, Ms. B. Xiao,
Ms. X. Liu, Mr. C. Song, Mr. X. Ma, Mr. S. Sun, Ms. Y. Fu, Ms. N. An, Ms. L.
Zhang, Dr. Q. Gu, my colleagues Dr. M. Nguyen, Prof. R. Klette.
Symbols and Acronyms

Symbols
Set of integer numbers
Set of positive integer numbers

Set of real numbers

Union of sets
Intersection of sets
Member
Proper subset
Subset
Exist
For all
Perpendicular
Define
Mapping
Plus or minus
Sum
Product
Infty
Norm function
Determinant
Gaussian distribution
Activation function
Inner or dot product
Loss function
Cost function
 Logarithm base 10
Natural logarithm
Exponential function
Hyperbolic tangent function
Max function
Derivative
Partial derivative
Integral
First-order parametric continuity
Second-order parametric continuity
Infinite continuity
Expected value function
Conditional probability
Mean
Variance
Arguments of the maxima
Sign function
Element of matrix

Element of vector

Weight matrix W
Matrix transpose
Shift vector b
Vector transpose
Point P
Set S
Acronyms
ACM Association for computing machinery
AdaBoost Adaptive boosting
AI Artificial intelligence
ANN Artificial neural networks
ASCII American standard code for information interchange
Bagging Bootstrap aggregating
CNN Convolutional neural network
ConvLSTM Convolutional long short-term memory
ConvNet Convolutional neural network
CVPR International conference on computer vision
DBM Deep Boltzmann Machine
DBN Deep belief network
DMRF Deep Markov random field
FAIR Facebook AI Research
FCN Fully convolutional network
FCNN Fully connected neural network
FN False negative
FP False positive
FRU Fully gated unit
GAN Generative adversarial network
GPU
Graphics processing unit
GRU Gated recurrent unit
HOG Histograms of oriented gradients
ICCV International conference on computer vision
LBP Local binary patterns
LSTM Long short-term memory
MC Monte Carlo methods
MCNN Multichannel convolutional neural networks
MDP Markov decision process
MGU Minimal gated unit
MNIST Modified NIST database
MRF Markov random field
MRI Magnetic resonance imaging
MRP Markov random process
NIST National institute of standards and technology
NLP Natural language processing
PCA Principal component analysis
PDF Probability density function
R-CNN Region-based CNN
ReLU Rectified linear unit
ResNet Deep residual network
RNN Recurrent neural network
ROI Region of interest
RPN Region proposal network
SARSA State-action-reward-state-action
SGD Stochastic gradient descent
SSD Single shot multibox detector
ST-GCN Spatial-temporal graph convolutional networks
SVM Support vector machine
TD
Temporal-difference
TN True negative
TP True positive
VAE Variational autoencoder
WCSS Within-cluster sum of squares
YOLO You only look once
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “I am certain it was some question of marriage,” said Ralph.
“Probably he wanted that brute Wylie to have the control of her
fortune. I have always detested that man. Governor! What am I to
do? Will you spare me for a week and let me see if I can help her?”
“No, my dear boy, I will not do anything of the sort,” said
Macneillie resolutely, yet with a most kindly look in his eyes. “I know
it’s a hard thing for you to stay here and go on with your work as if
nothing had happened, and while all the time you are sick with
anxiety, but it’s what we all of us have to put up with now and
again. Besides, you could do no good and you might do great harm.
Those who know Miss Ewart best are the ones who ought to have
most confidence in her womanly wisdom. Depend upon it she is
perfectly safe. Such a quiet, well-bred girl as that might go alone
unharmed from one end of Europe to the other.”
Ralph pushed back his chair and paced the room restlessly. “The
suspense is the intolerable part of it,” he said, with a break in his
voice.
“I have good reason to know how hard suspense is to bear,” said
Macneillie. “And yet it’s not the worst, for there’s always a large
mixture of hope in it. Come let us write out your telegram to the
Herefords, it will need careful wording.”
The next day was Sunday, but the telegraph office was open for
two hours in the morning, and upon the stroke of eight Ralph stood
at the door with his message to Ireland. He returned again between
half past nine and ten and waited drearily in the office for the reply.
But the deep bell of the cathedral boomed out the hour and still no
answer came.
“Open again between five and six, sir,” said the official, showing
him to the door. And Ralph, miserably depressed, made his way to
the cathedral. Here for a time he found comfort; but during the
psalms the verger ushered a late-comer into the stall exactly facing
him. He saw at a glance that it was Sir Matthew, and after that there
was no more peace for him, but a dire struggle with his angry heart.
 After service was over, Sir Matthew joined him in the Close,
greeting him just as if nothing had happened.
“Did you telegraph to the Herefords?” he asked.
“Yes, but as yet there is no reply,” said Ralph.
“And I have not heard back from Dresden. We shall both hear this
afternoon. Come and dine with me at eight o’clock and you shall
hear the result.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph. “But we leave for Nottingham by the
eight ten.”
“Come to lunch now then.”
But to sit down and eat with the man who had wrought such
havoc in his life and had driven Evereld to take such a desperate
step was more than Ralph could endure. He excused himself,
promising, however, to come round at six o’clock to the hotel and
report any news he might receive from Ireland. His face when he
arrived was not reassuring; he looked pale and miserable.
“What news?” said Sir Matthew eagerly.
“None,” said Ralph, handing the telegram to his godfather. The
words struck a chill to Sir Matthew’s heart.
“Know nothing about her at all. Imagined she was in Switzerland
still with her guardian.”
“I have had a similar one from Dresden,” he replied. “She is not
there and wrote last nearly a month ago.”
“Is there any clue whatever in the letter she left behind for you?”
suggested Ralph, with a strong desire to see it. Sir Matthew took
from his breast-pocket a methodically arranged packet, and drew out
Evereld’s note.
“I can find no clue in it,” he said, “perhaps you may be able to do
so.”
 Ralph eagerly read the letter. There was not the slightest hint as
to the direction Evereld had taken, but something in the quiet
assurance, the guarded, dignified tone of the short note brought him
comfort. It revealed a side of his old play-fellow’s character which
had hitherto lain dormant.
“Well,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “You look relieved. What do you
make of it? Where do you think she has gone?”
“I have no idea,” said Ralph. “The letter tells nothing. Still she
wouldn’t have written so calmly and confidently if her plans had not
been well thought out. Evereld is not impulsive. Perhaps she had
met friends while you were travelling and has gone to them.”
“No, I had a telegram in London from Bruce Wylie who went over
to Champéry on purpose to interview a school friend she had met.
She had heard nothing whatever about her. I shall have to set a
private detective to work.”
Ralph flushed.
“You would surely not do that?” he said quickly.
“Why not? I must find her. And I intend to bring her back to my
house.”
“Well,” said Ralph, “the one thing that remains absolutely certain is
that when Evereld says a thing she means it with her whole heart.
She will certainly appeal to the Lord Chancellor, and I don’t think he
will compel her to return to your house when he has heard the
whole truth.”
“Do you dare to assert that I have not been in every respect a
faithful and kind guardian to her? I who was her father’s oldest
friend?”
“I assert nothing,” said Ralph bitterly, as he moved to the door.
“But I can’t forget what your friendship for my father led to.”
Sir Matthew made no reply, but turned abruptly to the window,
the colour mounting to his temples. The closing of the door and the
sound of Ralph’s retreating footsteps came as a relief.
“If I had but guessed what a serpent’s tooth that boy would prove
to me I would have shipped him straight off to the Colonies instead
of educating him,” he thought to himself. “I was weak—pitiably
weak! It was the look of Denmead’s face as he lay there dead that
unmanned me. There was the ghastly quiet of the country, too, and
the child with his old-world politeness, and that old lawyer with his
suspicions. If I had only been sensible enough to stamp out all
sentiment and do the practical thing at once my plans would not be
thwarted now by a chit of a girl who has lost her heart to a penniless
actor.”
His face grew dark with anxiety and trouble as he reflected on the
desperate position of his own affairs should Evereld succeed in
baffling him.
 CHAPTER XXVII
“When a friend asks, there is no to-morrow.”
George Herbert.

W
hen Evereld parted with the kindly American girl and Dick
Lewisham a sense of great loneliness for a time
overwhelmed her. She looked in a dazed way at the various
delicacies displayed in the prettily arranged shop, wondering
whether she would ever feel hungry again. Having at last selected
some dainty little meat patties, and two crescent-shaped rolls, she
walked on to the next halting-place of the electric tram, and, after a
very brief waiting, found herself, to her great relief, comfortably
installed in a corner seat en route for Vevey. She had judged it more
prudent to take the tram, knowing that she would more easily be
traced had she gone direct from Territet station to Geneva by the
railroad or by steamer. When once they were safely out of Montreux,
and the risk of meeting any of the visitors in the Rigi Vaudois was
practically over, she breathed more freely, even finding time to enjoy
the lovely glimpses of the lake and the mountains as they sped
through Clarens and the pretty surroundings of Vevey.
Arrived at length in that quaint old town, she was set down at the
railway station, where she prudently took her ticket only as far as
Lausanne, travelling second class because she knew that she was
less liable to find herself alone, and had heard the continental saying
that only fools and Englishmen travel first class. It was during the
twenty minutes’ waiting time at Lausanne that her perplexities
began.
A kindly looking English lady, seeing that she seemed to be alone,
sat down beside her and began to talk about the weather and the
scenery. Finally she hazarded a direct question.
“Have you a long journey before you?”
“Not very long,” said Evereld, colouring, as she glanced inquiringly
into her companion’s face, as though to make sure what sort of
person she was. In one sense the look reassured her, for the most
suspicious mortal could not have credited this mild-faced lady with
evil design, but, on the other hand, she was evidently one of those
inquisitive mortals who delight in asking questions, in season and
out of season.
“I am going myself to Geneva, if that is your direction we might
perhaps travel together,” said the lady pleasantly.
“Thank you,” said Evereld, reflecting that after all she could baffle
the questions by reading when once they had started.
“It is not so easy for a girl to travel alone abroad as it is in
England,” said her companion, looking curiously at Evereld’s girlish
face. “I almost wonder your parents allow it.”
“I have no parents,” said Evereld.
“Indeed, and have you been staying with friends?”
“Yes,” said Evereld. “And I am on my way now to some other
friends.” Murmuring an excuse she sprang up and went to the
window to see whether the train was nearly ready.
“This is dreadful,” she reflected. “If we talk much longer she will
drag the whole story out of me. I will buy some papers and try to
make her read.”
“You are sure your luggage is all right?” exclaimed the good lady
the moment she returned.
“Quite sure, thank you,” said Evereld, clasping her hand bag closer
and trembling lest she should be asked some quite unanswerable
question.
At length an official began vigorously to ring the great bell in the
doorway and to shout the intelligence that passengers for Geneva
and various other places must take their seats.
“Can I help you?” said Evereld, politely offering to take a basket
from the large heap of possessions with which her neighbour was
surrounded. She was startled to feel something jump inside it in an
uncanny way.
“Thank you if you would. To tell the truth it is my little dog in
there, but he is such a good traveller, I don’t think you will mind
him.”
“Shall I say that I detest dogs and so escape to another carriage?”
reflected Evereld smiling to herself. But on the whole in spite of the
tiresome questions she rather liked this good English lady and found
a certain comfort in her presence when once they were installed in
the train. Her spirits rose as they travelled further and further from
the Mactavishs, she even grew hungry, made short work of the
provisions she had bought, parried her friend’s questions skilfully by
counter questions about the pet dog and finally took refuge in “Pride
and Prejudice” and in the delicious humour of Jane Austen’s
characters forgot all her dangers and difficulties till the train steamed
into Geneva station.
“I suppose your friends will meet you?” asked the talkative lady as
she fastened the dog up in his basket.
“No,” said Evereld, “but I shall manage very well now, thank you,”
and with rather hurried farewells she sprang from the carriage not
offering to carry the basket any further but promising to send a
porter. Fortunately her companion was in such a bustle with the
effort of collecting her various belongings that she did not notice the
English girl’s somewhat abrupt departure, and Evereld with a joyful
sense of escape made her way to the outside of the station and
getting into one of the little public carriages drove off to make her
purchases in the town.
Having bought an ulster and a warm shawl which made a very
respectable show when put into her cloak straps she went back to
the station, dined in a leisurely way and passed the rest of her two
hours’ waiting time as patiently as she could. By six o’clock she was
safely in the train once more, with the happy knowledge that she
had no more changes that night, and would arrive at Lyons in rather
more than four hours. Her heart danced for joy as she reflected that
by the next afternoon she might have safely reached Bride O’Ryan
and Aimée Magnay, her greatest friends, in Mrs. Magnay’s old home
in Auvergne. That was the safe refuge towards which she was
steering her course, that was the thought which had darted into her
mind on the previous evening when she had decided that flight was
the only thing under the circumstances.
Later on however when darkness had stolen like a pall over the
landscape, when weary with want of sleep and worn out with
excitement and anxiety, the glad sense of escape died away, she
grew unutterably sad-hearted and forlorn.
At the other end of the carriage two men wrangled together over
the vexed question of having the window open or shut. A fat French
lady went to sleep and snored monotonously, just opposite her a
young couple on their honeymoon laughed and chatted in low tones
with much outward demonstration, while beyond a young mother sat
with her baby in her arms, an air of placid content on her face.
Never before had Evereld felt such a unit, never before had she
realised how really alone she was in the world. She shuddered to
think what would have become of her if Ralph had never crossed her
path. And then as the engine throbbed on through the darkness all
those terrors of imagining from which her healthy uneventful life had
so far been exempt, laid strong hold upon her, and made the night
hideous.
She saw Ralph lying ill and forlorn in a fever hospital. She saw him
lying with pale lips and hands folded in the awful calm of death. She
saw herself alone and brokenhearted, struggling to make something
of her maimed life and failing in the attempt. She saw Sir Matthew
tracking her out and carrying her back to the house in Queen Anne’s
Gate. Worst of all she saw herself standing in church and passively
allowing herself to be married to Bruce Wylie.
 She had just reached this climax in her miserable thoughts when
as the train stopped at the wayside station the door of the carriage
was opened and in came a very aged priest whose rusty black
raiment had an old and somewhat countrified look. His thin, worn
face might have been stern in youth, but the passing years had
mellowed it, and like Southey’s holly tree what had once been sharp
and aggressive had grown tender as it more nearly approached
heaven. His keen eyes seemed to take in the occupants of the
carriage in one glance and he at once divined that the sad little
English girl in the corner was for some reason feeling altogether
desolate. He took the vacant place beside her and began to unwrap
a package which he carried. It proved to be a cage containing a
bullfinch, and Evereld watched with interest the scared fluttering of
the bird and the gentle reassuring face of the old man as he tried to
pacify it.
“It is its first journey,” he said glancing at her. “The unaccustomed
has terrors for us all. It will soon understand that it is quite safe. Eh,
Fifi? Should I let any harm happen to thee, thou foolish one?”
“Can it sing any tune?” said Evereld. “We had one in London that
sang a bit of the National Anthem.”
“And Fifi is just as patriotic,” said the old priest laughing, “he will
pipe two lines of Partant pour la Syrie, I am taking him to cheer up
one of my parishioners who is lying ill at Lyons. He will think Fifi
from the Presbytère almost as good as one of his own friends from
the village. And when the lad is better why he will bring back this
winged missionary to me. My old housekeeper would not hear of
parting with Fifi altogether, he is the life of the house she says.”
The bird growing now more accustomed to its strange
surroundings piped cheerfully the familiar air of the refrain

“Amour a la plus belle

Honneur au plus vaillant.”
 “Ah! he sings better than ours ever did,” said Evereld thinking of
the bird Ralph had brought from Whinhaven.
“And he is more tractable than a choir boy,” said the old priest
laughing. “Does he sing too loud and tire one’s head—it is but to
cover his cage and he is as quiet as any mouse.”
After that they drifted into talk about life in rural France, and by
the time they reached Lyons Evereld felt that the old man had
become quite a friend.
The other passengers scrambled out of the carriage each intent on
his own affairs, but the priest helped her courteously with her roll of
cloaks.
“Would you mind telling me what is the best and most quiet hotel
to go to?” she asked. “I cannot get on any further till nine o’clock to-
morrow morning. I am on my way to stay with friends near
Clermont-Ferrand.”
“You are over young my child,” he said, “to travel unprotected. But
I know it is not in England as with us, the young demoiselles have
greater liberty. The best plan will be for you to go to an Hotel close
by. As it happens I know the manager and his wife and if you will
permit me I will walk with you to the door, and ask them to take
good care of you. I think you are like Fifi, not over well-accustomed
to travelling.”
“Thank you very much,” said Evereld gratefully. “Now I shall feel
safe indeed.”
The old priest piloted her across the crowded platform and having
given her luggage to the hotel porter himself took her to the
Manager’s little office where Madame, a comely and pleasant looking
woman, sat at her desk busily casting up accounts. Her face lighted
up at sight of the old man.
“A thousand welcomes Father Nicolas, it is long since you paid us
a visit.”
 “You are well,” said the old priest, “I need not ask that, for it is
easily to be seen, and busy as usual. Is your husband in?”
“He will be desolated, but he has gone to his Club.”
“Ah, well, I will call and see him to-morrow. In the meantime will
you kindly do your utmost to make this young English lady feel at
home and comfortable. She is unable to travel further till the 8.59
to-morrow morning. I leave you in good hands,” he said, taking
kindly leave of Evereld, “Madame has a great reputation for taking
good care of her guests.”
“It will be my greatest pleasure,” said the manager’s wife.
“Mademoiselle looks tired and will doubtless like to go to her room.”
Evereld assented and toiled upstairs after the brisk capable
looking manageress who chatted pleasantly as they went.
“He has the best of hearts, old Father Nicolas,” she said. “I have
known him since I was a child. There is not a living thing I verily
believe that he does not love. It was a sight to see him standing on
a winter’s morning in the garden of the Presbytère and feeding the
birds before he went to Mass.”
“Where does he live?” asked Evereld.
“At Arvron, a little village where there are many poor. His people
adore him. This will be your room, mademoiselle, and shall I send
you up a little hot soup to take the last thing, or will you rather come
down to the salle à manger?”
“I should like it here please,” said Evereld. “And you won’t let me
over-sleep myself and miss the train to-morrow. I am so tired, I
think I should sleep the clock round if no one called me.”
“I will call you myself,” said the manageress. “It is a busy life here
and I am always an early riser. Bon soir, mademoiselle. I hope you
will be quite rested by the morning.”
“How much easier it has all been than I expected,” thought
Evereld, as she made her preparations for the night. “To think that
this time yesterday I was at Glion and in such a panic lest anything
should prevent my getting away! I wonder whether I had better
telegraph to Mrs. Magnay, and tell her I am on my way to ask her
protection? I don’t think I will. It might lead to my being traced later
on, and besides I have no idea whether there is a telegraph office
within reasonable reach of the Chateau. How I wonder what it will
be like.”
Her reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a pretty young
chambermaid who brought her a basin of the most delicious soup;
and long before midnight she was sound asleep and dreaming of
Bride and Aimée.
She woke up in excellent spirits, chatted with Madame as she
breakfasted on the coffee and rolls, which the pretty chambermaid
brought to her bedroom, and set off on the next stage of her
journey full of hope for the future and relief that all had passed off
so well. At that very minute Sir Matthew Mactavish was ruefully
regarding her empty room at Glion and wondering how he could
possibly trace her out. But Evereld was too busy to trouble herself
much over the thought of his well-deserved discomfiture. Every one
seemed intent on being kind to her here. The Manageress was
almost motherly in her solicitude, the chambermaid waited on her as
though service were a pleasure, and the hotel porter neglected the
other passengers in the omnibus until he had seen her safely
established in the salle d’attente with her possessions. Here to her
surprise she found old Father Nicolas reading his breviary.
“It was too early yet to see the sick lad I told you of,” he
explained, “so I thought I would start you on your way, if you will
permit me the pleasure.”
“I shall never forget all your kindness,” she said gratefully. “I was
feeling so dreadfully alone till you got into the train last night.”
“Well it is no bad thing to learn what loneliness means,” said the
old man thoughtfully. “Nothing so well teaches you to go through life
on the look out for the lonely, that you may serve them. Ha! They
come to announce your train. I will inquire if you have a change of
carriages at Montbrison.” He hurried away, returning in a minute or
two to help her with her packages.
“Yes, I am sorry to say they will turn you out at Montbrison, but
you will have only ten minutes waiting and no difficulty at all in that
quiet place. I see M. Dubochet and his two daughters—very pleasant
people—will you go in the same carriage?”
And so with a few pleasant words of introduction to Mademoiselle
Dubochet, Father Nicolas bade Evereld God-speed, and as the train
moved off she looked out wistfully after her kindly old friend,
wondering whether she should ever again come across him.
The clock was striking five when after an uneventful journey
Evereld found herself outside the station at Clermont-Ferrand, giving
orders to a somewhat rough-looking Auvergnat to drive her to the
Château de Mabillon. The man seemed inclined to hold out for a
certain sum for the journey and as Evereld had no notion of the
distance, she was determined to make no rash promises. It would
never do to be extravagant now, for there was no saying how long
her last allowance would have to supply her wants.
“M. Magnay will settle with you when we reach the château,” she
said with a little touch of dignity in her manner. The man instantly
subsided, feeling that he had no stranger to deal with, but a friend
of the family. And Claude Magnay’s name was quite sufficient to
assure him that he would receive his rightful fare, but not the
extortionate sum he had demanded of the new comer.
The little incident had however depressed Evereld. She had
spoken confidently to the man but now a qualm of doubt came over
her. She was about to cast herself on the mercy of Aimée’s parents,
and after all she knew little about them: on their occasional visits to
Southbourne, she had gone with Aimée and Bride to spend Saturday
afternoon with them, and she had been three or four times to their
London house, but she realised now that she was going to ask a
very great favour of them, and that possibly they might not care to
shelter her from her lawful guardian.
These thoughts lasted all the time they were driving through the
narrow and dingy streets of Clermont-Ferrand, and she fancied that
the lava built houses seemed to frown upon her and to assure her
that she was an unwelcome visitor. Before long however they had
left the town behind them and were driving through the most
beautiful country, and in that sunny smiling landscape it was
impossible to give way to anxious thoughts. The glowing colours of
the autumn leaves, the picturesque vineyards, the river with its
gleaming water reflecting the blue sky, and the strange irregular
mountains which rose on every hand filled her with delight.
The sun had set when at length they reached a narrower and
more secluded valley; Evereld fancied they must be getting near to
Mabillon and inquired of her driver.
“It is two kilometres to the chateau,” said the Auvergnat. Then
after a few minutes he again turned round from the box seat.
“Madame Magnay and her daughter are down at the mill yonder,” he
said.
“Oh, stop then, and let me speak to them,” said Evereld eagerly;
and springing from the carriage she hastened towards Aimée who
quickly perceived her and ran forward with a cry of joyful
astonishment.
“This is a delightful surprise. Are you travelling back through
France? Mother, you remember Evereld?”
Mrs. Magnay gave her a charming greeting, containing all the
warmth and animation which English greetings so often lack.
“I remember Evereld very well, and am more delighted than I can
say to welcome her to my dear old home.”
“You are very good,” said Evereld shyly, “I have come to you
because I was in great trouble, and I thought—I felt sure—you
would help and advise me. It is impossible for me to stay longer with
Sir Matthew Mactavish.”
Her eyes were full of tears, and Mrs. Magnay taking her hand
began to lead her towards the carriage.
“You are quite tired out, poor child,” she said caressingly. “We are
very sorry for your trouble, but very glad that it brought you to
Mabillon. This evening you shall tell us all about it. Do you see that
pretty girl waving her hand to us from the cottage door? That is my
dear old Javotte’s granddaughter. Aimée has told you how she
starved herself in the siege of Paris that we might have food
enough. Dear old woman!”
“And here is one of the best views of Mont D’Or,” said Aimée, “only
the light is fading so fast you can’t properly see it.”
Chatting thus, they soon reached the old château, a great part of
which had now been carefully restored, and Mrs. Magnay seeing
how pale and worn her guest looked, determined to take her straight
upstairs.
“Run Aimée,” she said, “and tell your father to settle with the
driver, and then bring a cup of tea for Evereld. I shall take her to
Bride’s room, she will be more snug in there I think.”
So Evereld was taken straight to her friend, and then while Mrs.
Magnay herself kindled the wood fire, and daintily piled up fir-cones
to catch the blaze, Bride made her rest in the snuggest of easy
chairs, and she had very soon told them the whole story.
“I know nothing of English law,” said Mrs. Magnay. “Are you sure
you can put yourself under the protection of the Lord Chancellor?”
“I think so,” said Evereld. “Don’t you remember, Bride, how we
used to tease you about your answer in that examination we had,
when you wrote—‘The Lord Chancellor must be a very busy man for
Blackstone says he is the natural guardian of all orphans, idiots and
lunatics.’”
 “To be sure I do,” said Bride laughing. “Well if Blackstone says so,
you must surely be right.”
“I will go and talk over matters with my husband, and see what he
advises, and in the meantime, Bride, I strongly advise you to put
Evereld to bed. She looks to me quite tired out. Rest and forget your
troubles, dear. No one can molest you at Mabillon, and you say that
Sir Matthew can have no clue to your whereabouts.”
“No, he will naturally think I have gone to Mrs. Hereford, or to my
old governess at Dresden,” said Evereld. “To-morrow I must write to
Mrs. Hereford and ask her to let Ralph know that I am safe. I am so
afraid he may hear that I have disappeared and be anxious about
me.”
“Write to him,” said Bride, “and let Doreen forward your letter.”
In the meantime Mrs. Magnay told the whole story to her
husband, and it was decided that he should put the case straight
into the hands of a London solicitor. Evereld, being consulted as to
the one she would prefer, unhesitatingly named Ralph’s old friend Mr.
Marriott of Basinghall Street, and as Claude Magnay knew that she
could not have mentioned a more trustworthy and efficient man he
wrote to him and made her on the following morning also write with
a full description of all that had passed, of her suspicions with regard
to her fortune and of her wish for a thorough investigation of her
affairs.
 CHAPTER XXVIII
“No action whether foul or fair,
Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere
A record, written by fingers ghostly,
As a blessing or a curse, and mostly
In the greater weakness or greater strength
Of the acts that follow it, till at length
The wrongs of ages are redressed,
And the justice of God made manifest.”
The Golden Legend.

R
alph’s anxieties came to an end while the Company were
fulfilling their engagement at Nottingham. For one never to be
forgotten day there arrived a letter from Mrs. Hereford,
enclosing a long letter on foreign paper from Evereld. The sheet
bore no address and she did not mention the name of the friends
who were taking care of her, but she told him all about their
kindness, and that Bride O’Ryan was with her, that she was quite
safe from molestation and in the depths of the country far away
among mountains and woods, where neither Sir Matthew nor Bruce
Wylie could trouble her peace.
Later on came news from Mrs. Hereford that Evereld’s affairs had
been put into the hands of Mr. Marriott, and that Mr. Hereford was in
consultation with the old lawyer and would do everything he possibly
could: offering, if it were thought well, to become Evereld’s guardian
and trustee should the Lord Chancellor decide to deprive Sir
Matthew of the Trusteeship. After that for some time came no news
at all.
At last, growing anxious, Ralph made a hurried expedition to town
late one Saturday night, and sought out his old friend Mr. Marriott on
Sunday.
He could not however get anything very definite out of him. Mr.
Marriott was always reserved and cautious, but he set him quite at
rest as far as Evereld was concerned.
“She is perfectly safe and Sir Matthew can’t touch her, for she is
now a ward of Court,” he said reassuringly. “I am not yet at liberty to
speak to you as to details. I think however your old prejudice
against Sir Matthew Mactavish was not without foundation. Unless I
am much mistaken, he will soon be unmasked. Now to turn to quite
another matter;—I understand from my client Lady Fenchurch, that
you were present at Edinburgh last summer and met Sir Roderick.
Tell me as carefully as you can all that passed while you were
present.”
Ralph related all that he could remember.
“We have exactly the same sort of evidence from many other
witnesses of similar scenes,” said the lawyer. “It will not be worth
while calling you to appear at the trial. If you had witnessed any sort
of violence, physical violence, we should subpoena you at once.”
“When does the case come on?” said Ralph.
“Possibly next week, but there is always great uncertainty as to
the exact date.”
Ralph’s thoughts naturally turned to Macneillie and he
remembered his words about suspense being tolerable because it
was always so largely mixed with hope.
The lawyer, however, who knew nothing of his reasons for taking
interest in the Fenchurch case, fancied the shadow on his face was
caused by anxiety for Evereld Ewart, and began to talk in a kindly
way of her future.
 “Of course,” he said, “I can understand that under the
circumstances it is hard for you not to be allowed even to know
where Miss Ewart is. But it is safer that you should only
communicate with her through Mr. and Mrs. Hereford. Who can tell
that Sir Matthew may not pounce down on you again as he did at
Rilchester. You know that she is safe and well and for the present
that must suffice you. I have good reason to believe that the world
will soon see Sir Matthew Mactavish in his true colours, and what will
happen then no one can foretell. There are storms ahead, but I
think they are storms which will at any rate clear your way.”
After this enigmatical speech Ralph went back to his work,
somewhat perplexed, yet on the whole relieved and hopeful. There
followed ten uneventful days and then one morning at Brighton,
when he came down to breakfast and opened the paper, the first
thing that caught his eye was a brief paragraph just before the
leading article.
“In the Divorce Division yesterday the President and a Common
Jury had before them the case of Fenchurch v. Fenchurch and
Mackay. The adultery was not denied but the evidence failed to
show legal cruelty on the part of the defendant. His Lordship was
therefore unable to grant a decree nisi, but ordered a judicial
separation with costs, and directed the amount to be paid into Court
in a fortnight. Lady Fenchurch is well known to the public under her
stage name of Miss Christine Greville.”
“She is not yet free from that brute then,” thought Ralph, a sick
feeling of disappointment stealing over him as he realised how this
news would darken his friend’s sky, how it would for ever cheat him
of his heart’s desire. Hastily turning the paper to read the longer
report, he found a whole column with the sensational heading,
“Theatrical Divorce Suit,” and feeling how it would all grate upon
Macneillie, longed to keep the newspaper from him. “He shall at any
rate have his breakfast in peace,” he reflected, and crushing the
paper in his hands he flung it into the fire.
 The blaze had only just died down when Macneillie entered. He
seemed in unusually good spirits; they had had good houses for
three nights, moreover the weather was bright and clear, and the
autumn sunshine of the south coast seemed doubly delightful after a
gloomy tour in the midlands. Ralph thought he had never seen him
look so young and buoyant and hopeful as just at that moment.
“Nothing like Brighton air for making a man hungry,” said
Macneillie devouring a plateful of porridge and helping himself to
eggs and bacon. “Have they brought round the letters from the
theatre?”
Ralph handed him a budget, hoping that it would occupy him and
make him forget the paper! But there were no letters of importance
and Macneillie suddenly remembering that there might by chance be
news of the Fenchurch case, which he was aware would probably
come on during November, looked eagerly round the table.
“No newspaper?” he said. “How’s that? The Smith boy must have
played us false.”
“I will run out and get one,” said Ralph. “Will you have any of the
local ones, too?”
“Yes, let us see what they have to say about ‘The Winter’s Tale,’”
said Macneillie.
Ralph disappeared and Macneillie having finished his breakfast
rang for the maid to clear.
“Have you taken our newspaper to any of the other lodgers by
mistake?” he asked, beginning to feel impatient for it.
“No, sir,” said the maid. “It’s in here, at least—” looking round in
surprise, “I know it was in here. Mr. Denmead must have taken it
away. I saw him open it when I brought in the coffee.”
Then in a flash it dawned upon Macneillie that Ralph had made
away with the paper because it contained bad news.
 “The boy couldn’t stand seeing me come upon it suddenly,” he
thought to himself. “He wanted me to breakfast first. No one but
Ralph would have thought of that! It is the worst news. I must be
ready to bear it.”
He stood by the window looking out at the great expanse of sea
with its blue surface crisply ruffled by the fresh wind. Away to the
left the graceful outline of the chain pier seemed to speak of old
fashioned Brighton, and it took him back to a time at least
seventeen years ago in the very earliest days of his betrothal to
Christine. How vividly the very tiniest details of the past came back
to him. It had been in the days of aestheticism and high art
colouring, a style which had suited Christine to perfection. He could
remember, too, how at one of the little old-fashioned stalls he had
bought her a dirk-shaped Scotch shawl brooch with a cairngorm
stone in it; they had been far too poor in those days to dream of
diamonds.
“She was only a child of seventeen,” he thought to himself,
“younger than Evereld Ewart; and I was not perhaps so very much
older than that young fellow over the way. Yes, I was though—it is
Ralph! How slowly he is walking. I believe the boy cares for me, he
hates to be the bearer of ill news.”
Ralph’s usually cheerful face was curiously over-cast; he put down
the papers, muttered something about “going to Brill’s for a swim,”
and made for the door.
“Rehearsal at eleven, don’t forget,” said Macneillie, taking up the
London paper with a steady hand.
He was glad to be alone, and in the midst of his grievous pain he
felt grateful to Ralph for that little touch of considerateness which
had spared him to some extent,—that strategem which had deferred
his evil day. For as he had said his suspense had been largely mixed
with hope, he had tried to face the other alternative but his very
sense of justice had inclined him to be hopeful. It surely could not
be that after these long years of suffering there should be no
release? Max Hereford’s words had chilled him for the time, but spite
of them the hope had predominated. Now hope lay dead,—
remorselessly slain by this unequal English law, which as a Scotsman
seemed to him so extraordinary so intolerably unfair.
When a law is manifestly unjust,—when it flatly contradicts the
foundation truth of Christianity that in Christ all are equal, that there
is neither bond nor free, male nor female—there comes to every one
of strong passions the temptation to break the law. It is such a hard
thing to wait patiently for the slow tedious process of reform, that
the headstrong and the impetuous and the self-indulgent, and all
who have not learnt a stern self-control, will often take the law into
their own hands and defy the world. Macneillie reaped now the
benefit of long years of self-repression and suffering. He saw very
clearly that it is only justifiable to break the law of the land when it
interferes with a higher duty; that to break even a bad law because
it interfered with one’s cherished desire could never be right; that to
admit such a course to be right must sap the very foundations of
society.
He saw it all plainly enough, yet, being human, could not at once
shake himself free from the haunting consciousness that it lay in his
power to choose present happiness, that in such a case the world
would quickly condone the offence, and—greatest temptation of all—
that he might shield Christine from the difficulties and dangers that
were but too likely to assail one in her position.
Fortunately he had but little spare time on his hands, it was
already a quarter to eleven and the mere habit of rigorous
punctuality came to his help.
He walked down the parade, and the fresh air and the salt sea
breeze invigorated him, his mind went back, sadly enough, yet with
greater safety, from the future to the past, he seemed to be young
once more and crossing this very Steyne with a tall golden-haired
girl, who still retained something of the simplicity and innocence
which she had brought with her from her quiet school in the country.
She was beside him as he passed through Castle Square, beside him
as he walked up North Street, beside him as he went along the
Colonnade and entered the stage door of the very same theatre
where they had acted together all those years ago.
There was a rehearsal of “Romeo and Juliet” chiefly for the sake of
Ralph, who was the understudy for Romeo and was obliged to play
the part that evening owing to the illness of the Juvenile Lead—John
Carrington.
Though of course perfect in his words, he needed a good deal of
instruction, and Macneillie who always found him a pupil after his
own heart, receptive, quick, eager to learn, and with that touch of
genius which is as rare as it is delightful, forgot for a time all his
troubles in the pleasure of teaching. And if, after the night’s
performance was over and his satisfaction with his pupil’s success
had had time to pass into the background, the old temptation came
back once more, it came back with lessened power and found a
stronger man to grapple with it.
No word passed between master and pupil as to the bad news the
morning had brought, except that as Ralph, somewhat sooner than
usual, bade the Manager goodnight, Macneillie with his most kindly
look said to him:—
“Your Romeo is the best thing you have done yet. The saying
goes, you know, that no man has the power to act Romeo till he
looks too old for the part; you have done something towards
falsifying that axiom, and have cheered a dark day for me.”
“I owe everything to you, Governor,” said Ralph gripping his hand;
and as he turned away he felt that he would have given up all and
been content to play walking gentleman for the rest of his days if
only Macneillie could be spared this grievous trial that had come
upon him. He prayed for a reform of the law as he had never prayed
in his life.
Left alone, Macneillie paced silently up and down the room, deep
in thought. At length in the small hours of the night, he took pen
and paper and wrote the following letter:—
 “My dear Christine:
“It is impossible after our talk last summer in Scotland, to let such
a time as this pass by in silence. You well know that I love you, nor
will I pretend ignorance of your love for me. Let us be honest and
face facts;—truth makes even what we are called on to bear more
endurable. It is because I love and honour you that I write to bid
you farewell. Let us at least be law-abiding citizens, even though the
law be a one-sided, unjust law.
“I believe from my heart, that Christ, though disallowing divorce,
with its natural sequence another marriage, for all the trivial reasons
which the Jews were in the habit of putting forward, distinctly
permitted them where a marriage had been broken by the
faithlessness of a guilty partner. And assuredly He never set up one
standard of morality for men and another for women; His words
must apply equally to both.
“Doubtless some day the gross injustice of the existing English law
will be removed, and as in Scotland there will be one and the same
law for men and women in this matter. For that day I wait and hope.
For many reasons I do not ask now to see you. Is it not better that
we should not meet? I am convinced that it is safer and wiser that
we should—both for our own sakes and for the sake of the
profession—keep apart. Many may think this mere old-fashioned
prejudice, but I believe I should serve you better at a distance than
by dangling about you and so giving a handle to those scandal-
mongers who love nothing so dearly as to make free with the name
of some well-known actress.
“I dare not write more, save just to beg and pray that if there
should ever be a time when you are in any danger or difficulty, and
others—better fitted to serve because more indifferent—are not at
hand, you will then turn to me for help.
“God bless you. Good bye.
“Yours ever,
“Hugh Macneillie.”
 The letter reached Christine at Monkton Verney and the sight of it
made the colour rush to her pale face. What she hoped, what she
feared she scarcely knew herself, her heart was all in tumult. She
read it in feverish haste, then again slowly and carefully, and yet a
third time through fast gathering tears. How strangely it contrasted
with the so-called love letters she had received from some men! And
yet how infinitely more it moved her by its calmness and self-
restraint!
“I was unworthy of you in the past,” she thought. “But God
helping me I will try to be more worthy now.”
And without further delay,—dreading perhaps to put off the
difficult task—she wrote him a letter which had in it the fervour of a
new and strong resolve, and the beauty of a perfectly sincere
response of soul to soul.
After that she plunged straight into business, and about noon
sought out Miss Claremont and, walking with her in the quiet
grounds near the ruined priory, told her of the plans she had made
for the future.
“I have as you know made over the management of the theatre to
Barry Sterne. He and his wife have been very good to me for many
years, and it is better now that I should not again be burdened with
all the cares of a Manageress. He proposes that I should take the
part of the heroine in the new play that he is bringing out in January
and I have just written to him accepting the proposal.”
“Are you fit yet for work?” asked Miss Claremont looking a little
doubtfully into her companion’s face; it was curiously beautiful this
morning, but not with the beauty of physical strength. Indeed
Christine had never looked capable of bearing any very great strain
and the last few days had taxed her powers to the utmost.
“I must get to work,” she said quietly. “There is no safety in
idleness. How odd it seems that a physical break-down comes
generally through overwork, and a moral break-down through too
little work.”
 “When must you leave us?” asked Miss Claremont.
“I think I had better go next week, and if you will keep Charlie a
few days longer I can settle into that flat in Victoria Street which I
have the refusal of. I shall manage very well there with my maid,
and with Dugald to wait on Charlie; it will be necessary to live a
quiet life for many reasons.”
Miss Claremont assented, nor was it possible to raise any
objection to her companion’s plans. But she could not help secretly
wondering whether, with all her good intentions, Christine was
strong enough either in health or in character to live a life so beset
with difficulties.
 CHAPTER XXIX
“It seems indeed one of the deepest of moral laws, that under the
stress of trial men will strongly tend at least to be whatever in
quieter hours they have made themselves.”—“The Spirit of
Discipline.”
Dean Paget.

D
ecember was now half over and Macneillie’s company had got
as far as Southampton in their progress along the south
coast. It was no slight pleasure to Ralph to find himself back
in his old neighbourhood, and to act in the very theatre where long
ago his father had taken him to see Washington in “The Bells.” He
had heard nothing more from Mr. Marriott, and Evereld’s letters
contained no reference to business matters, but were taken up with
descriptions of life in the French country house, and of the happy
time she was having with Bride O’Ryan.
It happened one day that as there was no rehearsal Ralph was
able to walk over to Whinhaven. There were however very few of his
old friends left in the neighbourhood.
Sir John and Lady Tresidder were in India, pretty Mabel Tresidder
had married an officer and he had no idea of her present
whereabouts, while even in the village there were many changes.
Langston his coast-guard friend had got promotion and others had
left the place or had died. He felt like a returned ghost as he
wandered about the well-known lanes, and glanced at the familiar
garden and at the unchanged outlines of the Rectory. A little child
was playing with a pet rabbit on the lawn just as he had played in
old times. He stood for a minute at the gate watching it with a
strange feeling at his heart which was not all pain, but rather a sort
of tender regret and a glad sense of gratitude for a happy childhood
of which no one could ever rob him. For the rest his return was like
all such returns. He found the church unaltered, the houses bereft of
some of their old inhabitants and the church-yard more full.
Ralph however was not a man who liked to linger among graves,
he stood only for a minute by the tomb of his father and mother, and
passed on to that little nook in the park which they had always
called the “goodly heritage.” It was as beautiful as ever, even in
leafless December. The robins were singing blithely, the little brook
rippled at the foot of the steep descent, and an adventurous squirrel
had stolen out of his sleeping place to investigate his secret stores
and to take a brief scamper among the branches. Some day, Ralph
thought to himself, he would bring Evereld to see it all, and with that
his thoughts travelled away into a happy future, and as he walked
back to the nearest station regrets for the past were merged in the
realisation that the best part of his life was still before him, and that
many of his dark days had been lived through.
He was only just in time to catch the train and was hurriedly
searching for a place when he was startled to hear himself called by
his Christian name, and glancing round he saw someone beckoning
to him from a carriage at a little distance. The door was opened for
him, he stepped in, and to his amazement recognised in the dim
light the well-known features of his Godfather. There was no other
occupant of the carriage and Ralph remembering how they had
parted at Rilchester would fain have beat a retreat.
“You are going to Southampton?” asked Sir Matthew. “I heard
Macneillie’s company was there and I came partly for the sake of
seeing you.”
“Do you bring news of Evereld?” asked Ralph eagerly.
“No,” said Sir Matthew, “she has succeeded in baffling me, you
were right there. It is to her wilfulness that all my misfortunes are
due.”
Ralph bit his lip to keep back the retort that occurred to him. For a
minute the two looked at each other searchingly. Sir Matthew felt a
sinking of the heart as he noticed the angry light in his companion’s
eyes. Ralph on the other hand was perplexed by the pallor and
dejection of hiss Godfather’s face. The Company promoter seemed
quite another man, he looked old and broken, all his suavity of
manner, his business-like, capable air had vanished.
“I am ruined,” he said; “worse than ruined—I am disgraced. At
any moment I may be arrested unless I can succeed in leaving the
country unnoticed.”
Ralph listened to this startling announcement with an impassive
face. He hardened his heart against the man who had dealt harshly
with him.
“I suppose it means,” he said, “that another of your Companies
has failed and that this time you have suffered yourself, besides
ruining hundreds as you ruined my father.”
“God knows how I regretted his losses,” said Sir Matthew and for
the time there was a ring of genuine feeling in his voice. “It was for
that reason I adopted you, that I educated you, that I took you
straight to my own home. Have you forgotten that?”
“Sir, you never gave me a chance of forgetting it,” said Ralph
bitterly, all his worst self called out by contact with this man whom
he detested. “Had I listened to your temptation I should now have
been pledged to become a money-grubbing priest, a trader in holy
things, a disgrace to the church.”
He pulled himself up, recollecting that he was not much to boast
of as it was—but a faulty, irritable mortal, full now of resentment,
and hatred and contemptuous anger.
“Perhaps you were right,” said Sir Matthew with a sigh. “I admit
that I was harsh with you that day, and you have a right to hit me
now that I am down.”
Ralph instantly responded to this appeal as the astute Sir Matthew
had calculated.
 “Don’t let us speak of the past,” he said in an altered tone, “I owe
you my education and I try to be grateful for that. Why did you wish
to see me? What do you want with me?”
“We are almost at Southampton,” said Sir Matthew glancing at the
lights of the town. “Let me come to your rooms with you and I will
there explain matters. Is this St. Denys? They stop for tickets here I
suppose; have the goodness to give mine to the collector.”
He moved to the further end of the carriage and began to unstrap
some rugs from which he took a highland maud. He was still
stooping over the straps when the tickets wore collected. Then as
soon as they moved on once more he began to swathe himself
elaborately in his tartan.
“Can I see you alone?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Ralph, “I am usually with Mr. Macneillie, but he has
friends in Southampton and is staying with them, so I happen to be
quite alone.”
“All the better” said Sir Matthew a touch of his old manner
returning to him. “We will take a cab. I have only this gladstone with
me.”
And accepting Ralph’s offer to carry his bag, he drew the tartan
carefully over the lower part of his face and crossed the platform
swiftly to the cabstand.
Ralph felt like one in a dream as they drove through the town to
his lodgings, and several times he recalled the day when as a child
he had last left Whinhaven, and Sir Matthew and he had sat thus
side by side driving through the crowded London streets to Queen
Anne’s Gate.
The tables were turned indeed! It occurred to him even more
strikingly as he took Sir Matthew into his snug little sitting-room in
Portland Street and saw him warming his hands at the fire.
Recollecting that his Godfather was a great tea-drinker, he rang at
once and ordered the landlady to make some ready.
 “That will be coals of fire on his head,” he thought to himself with
a smile as he recalled the afternoon when he had sat hungrily in
Lady Mactavish’s great drawing-room privileged only to hand cups to
other people.
Sir Matthew was curiously silent, and as he sat by the fire seemed
to care for nothing but the warmth and the food. By and bye,
however, glancing at his watch he seemed to remember that his
time was limited.
“You are acting this evening?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Ralph, “in the ‘Rivals.’ I must be at the theatre in three
quarters of an hour. Can you tell me now what you want with me?”
“I want your help,” said Sir Matthew. “At any moment I may be
traced. Though I hope I have eluded pursuit and set them on a
wrong track one can never tell in these days of telegrams and
espionage. I don’t ask much of you. All I want is this; go down to
the agents’ and take a place on board the Havre boat for to-night;
let me shelter here until the passengers are allowed to go on to the
steamer and, since you are a practised hand in making up, help me
to disguise myself. I ask nothing but this.”
The audacity of the request roused all Ralph’s angry resentment
again. He clenched his hands fiercely and began to pace up and
down the room.
“You ask me to help you to escape,” he said indignantly, “when I
am certain that you richly deserve to be brought to justice!”
“I ask you,” replied Sir Matthew, “to help your Godfather in his
great need. To show a kindness to your father’s old friend.”
“You had no kindness for him,” said Ralph. “How can you—how
dare you come to me. You who have desolated homes and broken
hearts! Why there are few things I should like better than to see you
arrested and properly punished.”
Sir Matthew’s face grew whiter.
 “Would you betray me?” he said, “after I have trusted you?”
“No,” said Ralph indignantly, “certainly not. But I will not stir a
finger to help you. How can you expect me to forget the way in
which you have wronged Evereld?”
Sir Matthew’s keen eyes scrutinised him closely for a minute; he
was puzzled to know how much Ralph had learnt of the truth.
“Wronged her?” he said questioningly, “what do you mean?”
“I mean that you traded on her innocence and ignorance of the
world; that you tried by the most foul means to force her and
frighten her into marrying Bruce Wylie. That you drove her to escape
from you, and that but for the care and kindness of others she might
have got into great difficulties.”
A look of relief crossed Sir Matthew’s face. Ralph certainly did not
know that he had speculated with Evereld’s fortune and lost almost
the whole of it.
“You misjudge me,” he said assuming a tone of some dignity. “I
cannot explain matters to you, but I had the best intentions in
desiring to see Evereld safely married to Bruce Wylie. For the rest, it
is highly probable that you will have your wish. You may even see
me arrested to-night in Southampton. However I shall take good
care not to remain long in custody. It will be merely the change of
foregoing the journey to Havre and instead taking a much less costly
ticket for a journey to the undiscovered country from whose bourne
no traveller returns.”
He stood up and began slowly to button his overcoat. The easy
tone in which he had made the quotation, and the look of quiet
determination on his set face made a very painful impression on
Ralph. His anger died away. Horror and perplexity suddenly
overwhelmed him.
“What am I to do?” he thought desperately. “What would my
father have done? If it were possible to imagine a man like
Macneillie coming with such a request why I would shelter him and
help him. Must I do as much for a man I loathe. It would be more
just to let him be arrested? Why should I aid a guilty man to escape?
It’s conniving at his wickedness. But then again it’s true that I ate his
bread for years. If he should indeed take his own life I shall certainly
wish I had helped him. Good Heavens! how is a fellow to see the
right and wrong of such a case?” He looked round; Sir Matthew had
folded his plaid about him and now moved towards the door.
“Good-bye Ralph,” he said, “many thanks for your hospitality.” But
Ralph though he mechanically took the proffered hand spoke no
farewell, merely held the hand in his grasp while over his curiously
mobile face a hundred lights and shades succeeded one another.
“Wait,” he said at length, “I cannot let you go like that, Sir
Matthew.” His perplexity and distress were so genuine that for the
first time in all their intercourse the Company Promoter felt a sort of
liking for this boy whom he had wronged and patronised, snubbed
and educated, scolded and secretly hated. He saw that Ralph had all
his father’s gentleness and generosity, but a good deal more
strength and warmth of temperament than the Rector had ever
possessed.
In dire suspense he waited to know his fate. There was a silence
of some minutes; then Ralph, who had moved across to the fireplace
and had wrestled out his problem with arms propped on the
mantelpiece and face hidden, lifted up his head and once more met
the gaze of his father’s old friend. Sir Matthew was astonished to see
that he looked pale and haggard with the struggle he had passed
through.
“I will try to help you,” he said simply.
“Then,” said Sir Matthew with warmth, “I am justified in having
come to you. You are—as I thought—your father’s son. You are a
true Denmead.”
Ralph for the life of him could not help laughing at the words.
“You told me that in a different tone at Rilchester,” he remarked.
“The Denmeads, I think you were good enough to say, were always
unpractical fools, aiming at impossible ideals. I was angry then, but
after all perhaps you are right. I believe I am a fool to help you, but
just because you have so wronged us in the past I am afraid to
refuse lest there should be anything of private spite or revenge in
the refusal. What class do you wish to travel? I will go at once for
your ticket.”
“Take a second return to Havre, it may be a precaution,” said Sir
Matthew. “The steamer does not leave I think till 11.45. I did not
come down by the boat train for that might very probably have been
watched. How about disguise?”
“I will go to the theatre on my way back to you,” said Ralph, “and
bring a grey beard which I think is all that will be needed.”
He hurried off, for there was not very much time to spare. Now
that his decision was made he was comparatively at rest, and as he
sped along the dark streets his thoughts went back to Whinhaven
and all the quiet familiar scenes he had just visited. It was strange
that Sir Matthew should have encountered him just as he returned
from his old home, and perhaps, if the truth were known, the
Company Promoter might never have gained his help had it not been
for the softening influence of that visit to the old Rectory and the
“goodly heritage.”
Having secured the ticket, he made his way to the theatre, where,
early though it was, Macneillie had already arrived and was
discussing some knotty question with the assistant stage manager
and the master carpenter. Ralph slipped by them and ran up to his
dressing-room, unearthed the beard he wanted from his dress-
basket, tucked his make-up box under his arm and hastened away.
“Where are you off to?” said Macneillie.
“Back again in ten minutes, Governor,” he replied.
It was no use now to reflect how little he liked doing the work he
had undertaken, and indeed when he was again in his own room a
sort of pity for his godfather stirred once more in his heart. Sir
Matthew was so broken down, so aged by all that he had gone