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Image Processing Toolbox™
User's Guide
R2020a
How to Contact MathWorks
Phone: 508-647-7000
Getting Started
1
Image Processing Toolbox Product Description . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-2
Key Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-2
Compilability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-4
Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-19
Introduction
2
Images in MATLAB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2-2
v
Display Separated Color Channels of RGB Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2-17
vi Contents
Read Image Data from DICOM Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3-12
View DICOM Images . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3-12
vii
Explore Images with Image Viewer App . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-24
Explore Images Using the Overview Tool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-24
Pan Images Displayed in Image Viewer App . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-25
Zoom Images in the Image Viewer App . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-26
Specify Image Magnification in Image Viewer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-26
Explore 3-D Labeled Volumetric Data with Volume Viewer App . . . . . . . 4-63
Load Labeled Volume and Intensity Volume into Volume Viewer . . . . . . . 4-63
View Labeled Volume in Volume Viewer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-65
Embed Labeled Volume with Intensity Volume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-66
viii Contents
Add Color Bar to Displayed Grayscale Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-84
Geometric Transformations
6
Resize an Image with imresize Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-2
ix
Matrix Representation of Geometric Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-17
2-D Affine Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-17
2-D Projective Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-18
Create Composite 2-D Affine Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-19
3-D Affine Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6-21
Image Registration
7
Approaches to Registering Images . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-2
Registration Estimator App . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-2
Intensity-Based Automatic Image Registration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-3
Control Point Registration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-4
Automated Feature Detection and Matching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-5
x Contents
Nonrigid Registration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7-23
xi
Integral Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-5
Filter Grayscale and Truecolor (RGB) Images using imfilter Function . . . 8-7
Transforms
9
Fourier Transform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-2
Definition of Fourier Transform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-2
Discrete Fourier Transform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-5
Applications of the Fourier Transform . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-8
xii Contents
The Inverse Radon Transformation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-32
Inverse Radon Transform Definition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-32
Reconstructing an Image from Parallel Projection Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9-34
Morphological Operations
10
Types of Morphological Operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10-2
Morphological Dilation and Erosion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10-2
Operations Based on Dilation and Erosion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10-4
xiii
Distance Transform of a Binary Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10-50
xiv Contents
Create a Gray-Level Co-Occurrence Matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-68
xv
Anatomy of Imatest Extended eSFR Chart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-139
Slanted Edge Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-139
Gray Patch Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-140
Color Patch Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-141
Registration Markers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-141
ROI-Based Processing
12
Create a Binary Mask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-2
Create a Binary Mask from a Grayscale Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-2
Create Binary Mask Using an ROI Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-2
Create Binary Mask Based on Color Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-4
Create Binary Mask Without an Associated Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-4
xvi Contents
Measure Distances in an Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12-64
Image Segmentation
13
Texture Segmentation Using Gabor Filters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13-2
Segment Image and Create Mask Using Color Thresholder App . . . . . 13-42
xvii
Segment Image Using Auto Cluster in Image Segmenter . . . . . . . . . . 13-117
Image Deblurring
14
Image Deblurring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-2
Deblurring Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14-3
Color
15
Display Colors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-2
xviii Contents
Write ICC Profile Information to a File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-10
Convert RGB to CMYK Using ICC Profiles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-11
What is Rendering Intent in Profile-Based Conversions? . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-12
xix
Distinct Block Processing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-6
Implement Block Processing Using the blockproc Function . . . . . . . . . . . 17-6
Apply Padding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17-7
Deep Learning
18
Train and Apply Denoising Neural Networks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-2
Remove Gaussian Noise Using Pretrained Network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-2
Train a Denoising Network Using Built-In Layers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-2
Train Fully Customized Denoising Neural Network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-3
Remove Noise from Color Image Using Pretrained Neural Network . . . 18-5
xx Contents
Neural Style Transfer Using Deep Learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18-103
xxi
1
Getting Started
This topic presents two examples to get you started doing image processing using MATLAB® and the
Image Processing Toolbox software. The examples contain cross-references to other sections in the
documentation that have in-depth discussions on the concepts presented in the examples.
Image Processing Toolbox apps let you automate common image processing workflows. You can
interactively segment image data, compare image registration techniques, and batch-process large
datasets. Visualization functions and apps let you explore images, 3D volumes, and videos; adjust
contrast; create histograms; and manipulate regions of interest (ROIs).
You can accelerate your algorithms by running them on multicore processors and GPUs. Many
toolbox functions support C/C++ code generation for desktop prototyping and embedded vision
system deployment.
Key Features
• Image analysis, including segmentation, morphology, statistics, and measurement
• Apps for image region analysis, image batch processing, and image registration
• 3D image processing workflows, including visualization and segmentation
• Image enhancement, filtering, geometric transformations, and deblurring algorithms
• Intensity-based and non-rigid image registration methods
• Support for CUDA enabled NVIDIA GPUs (with Parallel Computing Toolbox™)
• C-code generation support for desktop prototyping and embedded vision system deployment
1-2
Configuration Notes
Configuration Notes
To determine if the Image Processing Toolbox software is installed on your system, type this
command at the MATLAB prompt.
ver
When you enter this command, MATLAB displays information about the version of MATLAB you are
running, including a list of all toolboxes installed on your system and their version numbers. For a list
of the new features in this version of the toolbox, see the Release Notes documentation.
Many of the toolbox functions are MATLAB files with a series of MATLAB statements that implement
specialized image processing algorithms. You can view the MATLAB code for these functions using
the statement
type function_name
You can extend the capabilities of the toolbox by writing your own files, or by using the toolbox in
combination with other toolboxes, such as the Signal Processing Toolbox™ software and the Wavelet
Toolbox™ software.
For information about installing the toolbox, see the installation guide.
For the most up-to-date information about system requirements, see the system requirements page,
available in the products area at the MathWorks Web site (www.mathworks.com).
1-3
1 Getting Started
Compilability
The Image Processing Toolbox software is compilable with the MATLAB Compiler™ except for the
following functions that launch GUIs:
• cpselect
• implay
• imtool
1-4
Basic Image Import, Processing, and Export
Read an image into the workspace, using the imread command. The example reads one of the
sample images included with the toolbox, an image of a young girl in a file named pout.tif , and
stores it in an array named I . imread infers from the file that the graphics file format is Tagged
Image File Format (TIFF).
I = imread('pout.tif');
Display the image, using the imshow function. You can also view an image in the Image Viewer app.
The imtool function opens the Image Viewer app which presents an integrated environment for
displaying images and performing some common image processing tasks. The Image Viewer app
provides all the image display capabilities of imshow but also provides access to several other tools
for navigating and exploring images, such as scroll bars, the Pixel Region tool, Image Information
tool, and the Contrast Adjustment tool.
imshow(I)
Check how the imread function stores the image data in the workspace, using the whos command.
You can also check the variable in the Workspace Browser. The imread function returns the image
data in the variable I , which is a 291-by-240 element array of uint8 data.
1-5
1 Getting Started
whos I
View the distribution of image pixel intensities. The image pout.tif is a somewhat low contrast
image. To see the distribution of intensities in the image, create a histogram by calling the imhist
function. (Precede the call to imhist with the figure command so that the histogram does not
overwrite the display of the image I in the current figure window.) Notice how the histogram
indicates that the intensity range of the image is rather narrow. The range does not cover the
potential range of [0, 255], and is missing the high and low values that would result in good contrast.
figure
imhist(I)
Improve the contrast in an image, using the histeq function. Histogram equalization spreads the
intensity values over the full range of the image. Display the image. (The toolbox includes several
other functions that perform contrast adjustment, including imadjust and adapthisteq, and
interactive tools such as the Adjust Contrast tool, available in the Image Viewer.)
I2 = histeq(I);
figure
imshow(I2)
1-6
Basic Image Import, Processing, and Export
Call the imhist function again to create a histogram of the equalized image I2 . If you compare the
two histograms, you can see that the histogram of I2 is more spread out over the entire range than
the histogram of I .
figure
imhist(I2)
1-7
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The words in the despatch, crumpled fiercely and thrust into
Gregory’s pocket, were these:—
“My son will be the bearer of the funds required. Trust you will give him the
opportunity he desires for study of social problems.
“Ingraham.”
It was the first word of reply to his letter which Gregory had
received, and it was a word which made him set hard his teeth and
groan like a wounded lion.
“Perhaps it is fair,” he said to himself, as he crossed the bridge;
“but Ingraham’s Nemesis as the price is a higher one than even I
expected.”
Above, in the mill hall, Oliver was mingling with the people who
were in the habit of remaining together for an hour of social
interchange after the programme, on these occasions. He quickly
found his old townsman, Mr. Hanson, who seemed more amazed
than rejoiced to greet him in Fraternia.
“Stopped over, eh, to see our village?” he asked. “On your way
North, I suppose?”
“Oh, no,” said Oliver, smiling complacently; “I have come straight
from home. I have a commission for your czar from my father, and I
rather look to throwing in my fortunes with you folks. I want to see
how this experiment works; study it, you know, on all sides. If I like
it, I guess I shall stay.”
“Oh, really,” said Hanson, a little aghast.
“How are you getting on, anyway?” proceeded Oliver, craftily.
“Rose-colour washed off yet? Has it been pretty idyllic this winter?
Say, I should think catering for a crowd up in this valley would be
quite a job. Don’t get salads and ices every day, I take it.”
Hanson shook his head impatiently, longing to get away from the
questioner.
“Well,” said Oliver, “I suppose by this time Gregory the Great has
issued his edicts and made all the poor people rich, hasn’t he? and
all the rich people poor? That seems to be the method of evening
up. I don’t wonder the poor fellows like it. Should think they would.”
“You will know better about us when you have been here awhile,
Mr. Ingraham.”
Oliver nodded cheerfully. “Oh, yes, of course. I am going to take
notes, you see. Perhaps I’ll write it up by and by,” and he tapped the
neat note-book which protruded from a pocket of his coat. “Are all
the sinners saints by this time?” he added.
“Hardly.”
“Well, then, we’ll put it the other way,” said Oliver, with a peculiar
significance in his high voice, “are the saints all sinners yet?” The
malicious leer with which this question was accompanied seemed to
turn it into a hateful insinuation, which Hanson, with all his half-
suppressed discontent, resented hotly. He was about to make a
hasty reply when Gregory came up and spoke to Oliver, to whom he
held out his hand. His manner was as cold as could be with decent
courtesy, and when Oliver had shaken his hand he passed his
handkerchief over it with the impulse a man has after touching a
slug or a snake.
Oliver noticed the gesture, and rubbed his long white hands
together reflectively.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead sea-shell
Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered, the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am!
—D. G. Rossetti.
The following morning Anna sent for Oliver. Word had reached her
that he was about to leave Fraternia. In the depth of her present
distress and perplexity a thought which “had no form, a suffering
which had no tongue” had arisen. Gregory, she knew, had left the
village hastily that night under stress of powerful emotion, perhaps
in a condition of mental excitement exceeding his own control. It
seemed to her possible that somewhere on the way from Fraternia
to Spalding he might have encountered Keith. The letter brought by
Oliver indicated, she was more and more convinced, that he had
really been on his way to her. If this were true, some event had
interposed, something had occurred to hinder his coming. What
could it have been, supposing him to have been but two miles away,
save some mysterious, unthinkable effect of an interview with
Gregory, if such there had been? It was no longer possible, no
longer justifiable, to await events. She must herself discover all that
Oliver knew, even if the discovery were to mean despair.
Alone, in her own cabin, she received Oliver. If Keith had been in
Fraternia, or John Gregory, it would not have been permitted; but
her intense anxiety and suspense overbore her usual shrinking from
contact with the man, and Everett yielded to her wish to see him
alone.
Oliver entered the cabin, noting its simple appointments with his
characteristic curiosity. Anna pointed to a chair which he took,
although she herself remained standing. Her face was as white as
her dress, her eyes deeply sunken, her manner sternly imperious.
“You are going away from Fraternia to-day?” she asked, with swift
directness.
“Yes,” said Oliver, nodding with his peculiar smile; “this precious
demigod or demagogue—whichever you please—of yours, your
imperial Gregory, has issued a ukase against me, in short, has done
me the honour to banish me from the matchless delights and
privileges of Fraternia!” The last word was spoken with a slow
emphasis of condensed contempt.
“There is something really a little queer about it,” Oliver continued,
in a different tone. “I am on to most of what happened between my
father and Gregory, but I’ve missed a link now somewhere. You see,
the governor, in a fit of temporary aberration, offered Gregory a
magnificent contribution for his socialist scheme down here; but
Gregory was pretty high and lofty just then, and, ‘No, sir,’ said he—I
heard him, though he and the governor don’t know it—‘No, sir, I
couldn’t touch your money. I am just that fastidious.’ The governor
had been confessing his sins to Gregory, the worse fool he! It
seemed that his money had come to him in a way that might make
some men squeamish, and Gregory, oh, dear, no! he wouldn’t have
touched those ill-gotten gains as he was feeling then—not with the
tip of one finger.
“But the joke is,” Oliver went on, “that he had to come to it. Oh,
yes; he got down on his marrow bones to the governor here about
three months ago, and wrote to him that he had reconsidered the
matter, and saw his mistake,” and Oliver gave a low chuckle; “so the
governor had to come down with the lucre, more or less filthy as it
was, and I don’t think he was quite so much in the mood for it either
as he was at the first, to tell the truth. But he sent it all the same,
and sent me with it, don’t you see? I came as the saviour of
Fraternia, although I have never been so recognized. The whole
town has been run the last month or two on Ingraham money, and it
seems to have greased the wheels about as well as any other
money, for all I see. But now comes the unexpected! Off goes
Gregory to England, sends back the governor’s check, so I hear from
Everett, and kindly writes me to take myself off. What brought him
to that is what I don’t quite see through yet.”
“I have no doubt,” said Anna, concealing her dismay at Oliver’s
malign disclosure with a manner of cold indifference, “that Mr.
Gregory had good reasons for thinking it better for you to return to
Burlington.”
“You’re right there,” retorted Oliver, quickly; “oh, yes, he had
excellent reasons, the best of reasons. A man who knows too much
is often inconvenient, you know.”
“Mr. Ingraham,” Anna asked hastily, apparently ignoring this
insinuation although she trembled now from head to foot, “I am not
interested in the business relations of your father and Mr. Gregory. It
was not to hear of them I sent for you. You brought me a letter
yesterday which I think must have been not long ago in my
husband’s possession. I wish you to tell me if, on the night when you
found this letter, that is the night before last, you saw my husband in
the neighbourhood of Fraternia?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Oliver, as if it were quite a matter of course;
“were you not expecting him?”
“Where did you see him?” The question came quick and sharp.
“Well,” said Oliver, reflectively, “you would like me to be exact, I
suppose. Let me see, how shall I describe the place so that you will
recall it—distinctly.”
There was a certain cold deliberation in the articulation of these
words which gave them a sickening cruelty. They called up strange
visions of dread and dismay to Anna’s tortured imagination.
“Speak more quickly,” she commanded, rather than asked, “the
precise spot makes no difference.”
“It was near the edge of the woods, on the Spalding side, that I
saw him first. The night was quite bright with moonlight, if you
remember. I had taken a stroll down to Spalding myself for some of
those little luxuries which Fraternia doesn’t furnish, and was on my
way back when I first noticed Mr. Burgess. He was just striking into
the path, there by that dead oak tree; you may remember it. I
noticed it because it stood out so white in the moonlight, and it was
just at the foot of it that I picked up that letter. I did not know that
he had dropped it, nor whose it was until after I got home.”
“Undoubtedly false,” thought Anna; “you had not had the chance
to read it, that was all,” but she did not speak. Oliver too was silent,
as if he had answered her question, and was done.
“Please go on.” Anna kept her patience and control still.
“Oh!” exclaimed Oliver, as if surprised, “you want to hear more, do
you? All right. I guess likely I’m the only man that can tell you, being
the only witness, in fact.”
“Witness of what?” Anna cried importunately.
“Well, that’s it. That’s what I’ve asked myself more than once
since that night, and I rather guess as good a description as I could
give would be to call it a kind of moral murder; a moral murder,” and
Oliver repeated the phrase as if gratified by the acuteness of his
perception in forming it.
He watched her face closely, and beginning to fear from the bluish
shade which tinged her pallor that Anna would soon be released
from his power to torture by unconsciousness, hastily took another
line.
“Oh, you’ve nothing to worry about, Mrs. Burgess, nothing at all.
That was just a little fancy of mine, just my metaphorical way of
stating things. It was a very simple little incident, nothing which
need affect a man unpleasantly in the least. It just happened, you
see, that Gregory was galloping down the path toward Spalding, and
he met your husband, and they had a little talk together,—a mere
quiet conversation for a few moments,—and Mr. Burgess seemed to
change his mind about going to Fraternia just then, and turned back
toward the village. That was all. I watched him a little, to be sure he
didn’t need any help, you know, afterward. Gregory galloped right
along; he was going to catch a train, I suppose, at C——, and that
made him in something of a hurry, of course.”
“Why should my husband have needed help, Mr. Ingraham? Will
you be good enough to explain yourself clearly, and in as few words
as possible?” Anna spoke more calmly now, but her eyes were like
coals of fire.
“Certainly, certainly. I cannot repeat Gregory’s language, not
literally, but it seemed to cut Mr. Burgess up a good deal at the time,
—at least I fancied so. That is what I meant by that little simile of
mine awhile ago. He’s all over it now, of course. It was only a few
words anyway. Just that Gregory said, in that short way he has once
in awhile—Probably you’ve never heard him; he wouldn’t be apt to
speak so to you,” and Oliver decorated the sentence with one of his
most insinuating smiles.
“Mr. Gregory said—?” Anna asked, looking into his face with an
unflinching directness, before which Oliver’s eyes wandered
nervously.
“Why, he seemed surprised that Mr. Burgess should be coming
back so soon, and he gave him to understand that a man like him,
who was sick all the time, and not much of a Fraternian, either, was
rather a drag on such a woman as you, don’t you see? and it might
be fully as well if he should keep away and give you your freedom
most of the time.”
“Did my husband make any reply that you heard?” asked Anna,
huskily, this hideous distortion of unformulated traitor thoughts
which had lurked in the background of her own consciousness
confronting her now to her terror, and her heart doubly sick with the
loathing of being forced to ask such information from such a source.
“He said you were at least his wife, I remember that. I guess that
was about all. It struck me at the time that there was something in
what he said, with all due respect for Gregory. He rules everything
here, of course, though, I suppose,—even to the relations between
husbands and wives.”
The last words were lost upon Anna.
“You may go now, if you please, Mr. Ingraham,” she said calmly.
Her look and an unconscious gesture of dismissal were imperative,
and Oliver, not daring to disobey, left the place without another
word.
For two days Anna sat alone and in silence, waiting for the
summons which she knew by a sure intuition must come.
Oliver’s story had been confirmed in so far that it had been
learned that Keith had been seen in Spalding on the night of
Gregory’s departure, and had been known to take an east-bound
train on the following morning. Nothing further was discovered
regarding his movements, and it was useless to try to follow and find
him. Anna could only wait.
When the message came it was, as she had known it would be,
urgent and ominous. Keith was in Raleigh; he was very ill; she must
go at once.
Everything was ready, and with a strange composure and
quietness as of one carrying out a line of action fully foreseen, Anna
went on her journey, so like and yet so unlike that other journey to
Keith which she had taken in her girlhood, ten years before. That
had ended in their marriage. How would this end?
Reaching the city in the afternoon, Anna was driven with the haste
she demanded to the address named in the message which had
come, not from Keith himself, but from a physician. It was not that
of a hotel, as she had expected, but of a boarding-house of very
moderate pretensions in a quiet street. Even the small details of the
place, in their cheap commonness, smote her heart. Was it in places
like this that Keith had, after all, been living, instead of in the well-
appointed hotels in which she had always fancied him?
The landlady, a kindly, careworn woman, plain of dress and of
speech, received Anna with a mournful face, but forebore
explanations, seeing that it was time rather for silence, and led her
down a long corridor to the door of a dim and silent room.
There was a little stir as Anna stood in the open door; the
physician came out and spoke to her, and she saw a nurse sitting
quietly by a window. But Anna did not know that she saw or heard
them; her sense took in only her husband, with eyes closed and the
shadow of death upon his face, lying upon the strange bed in this
place of strangers.
She was by his side and his hands were in hers, when presently
he opened his eyes. Seeing her, a sudden light of clear recognition
illuminated his face, a triumphant ray of joy and satisfaction. He
tried to speak, but could not, but Anna felt the faint pressure of his
hand.
Once more his lips moved, and Anna saw rather than heard the
words:—
“Good-by, darling,” and with them the same look of ineffable love
and peace. Then his eyes closed and he sank again into
unconsciousness.
The physician, leaning over, said softly, “He will not rouse again.
This was most unexpected. He has been unconscious since
morning.”
The end came soon after midnight, unconsciousness falling into
death without pain or struggle.
Of the days which followed Anna could never recall a distinct or
coherent impression. Detached scenes and moments alone lived in
her memory.
She knew that Everett was there and that they started for Fulham.
Somewhere on the way Professor Ward met them, and Foster, the
old family servant. Nothing seemed strange and nothing seemed
natural; all passed to her as in a dream.
She was at Fulham; she remembered afterward that she sat in the
library which Keith had longed for so, and his body lay beside her,
below the mantelpiece where she had so often seen him lean. The
old servants, hastily summoned for the occasion, went and came,
and looked at her, she thought, with eyes of cold respect and mute
reproach. Then Everett stood there, and she saw that tears were on
his face as he looked upon his old friend, but she did not cry. Only
when Everett turned toward her she said, very simply, with a motion
of her hand which signified all that the place meant:—
“Keith gave his life—for me.” Then Everett had looked at her as if
alarmed at what he saw in her face, and had gone out hastily and
sent some woman to her, whom she did not want.
The incidents of the funeral seemed to pass by unnoticed. She
remembered the moment at the grave when at last she fully realized
that this was the end. Then she was at the Fulham railroad station,
and Professor Ward had come to her on the train and had held her
hands strongly in his, and had said with urgent emphasis:—
“You must always remember that Keith’s physician and all his old
friends believe that his life was prolonged rather than shortened by
your living in the South. Do not for a moment dwell on the opposite
thought.”
She had felt her dry lips tremble then and her eyes grew dim, but
she did not speak. The train had moved out soon, and she knew that
kind eyes watched her, but she could not meet their look.
Of the journey down into the West to her mother that night she
remembered nothing, save that the incessant jar of the train seemed
to follow in a rhythmic endless repetition the familiar refrain of the
old passion hymn,—
“Was ever grief like mine?”
CHAPTER XXXVII
From the unhappy desire of becoming great;
Preserve us, gracious Lord and God.
—Old Moravian Liturgy.
There is a time when religion is only felt as a bridle that checks us, and then
comes another time when it is a sweet and penetrating life-blood, which sets in
motion every fibre of the soul, expands the understanding, gives us the Infinite for
our horizon, and makes all things clear to us.—Lacordaire.
On the quiet street of the hill town of Bethlehem stands the quaint
and ancient building set apart in the Moravian economy as the
Widows’ House.
In the interior of the old stone house, with its massive walls and
rows of dormer windows, are wide, low-ceiled halls, and sunny,
sweet-smelling chambers, clean and orderly, chaste and simple, as
those of a convent. Here in mild monotony and peace the women of
the “Widows’ Choir” live their quiet life, and here in September we
find Anna Burgess, who had fled to this haven of her mother’s
abiding-place, as to a sanctuary.
The evening was warm, and the windows of Gulielma Mallison’s
room were open to the sunshine and the sweet air. Flowers
blossomed in the deep window-sills; the bare floor was as white as
scrubbing could make it; the appointments of the room were
cheerful and refined, albeit homely, and the atmosphere was that of
still repose. By the window Gulielma Mallison sat knitting, her face
beneath its widow’s cap calm and strong in its submissive sadness.
Opposite her on the sofa lay Anna, each line of her face and figure
expressing the suffering of a stricken heart. There had been months
of slow, wearisome illness and of grievous mental suffering, in which
her days had been a Purgatorio and her nights an Inferno; and now
weeks of convalescence, which were bringing life back into her
wasted frame, still failed to bring healing to her mind.
The mother’s fond eyes, glancing unperceived across her knitting,
noted the listless droop of the long white hands upon the white
dress, the marblelike pallor of the forehead from which the hair was
so closely drawn, the hollow cheeks, the piteous sadness of the
mouth, the glassy brightness of the eyes, fixed in the long, still gaze
of habitual introspection.
“Surely,” sighed Gulielma Mallison to herself, as she had before a
hundred times, “there is more than the bitterness of death in her
face; widowhood alone to the Christian brings not such havoc as
this. It is in some place of danger that her thoughts are dwelling. I
should fear less for her if she could only speak!”
But Anna’s grief could not find its way to words. How could her
mother, in her sober, ordered existence, her decorous and righteous
experiences of life and love and death, comprehend what it was to
live with shadows of faithlessness, even of blood-guiltiness, for
perpetual company? For to Anna’s thought Keith had been driven to
his lonely death by the hardness of Gregory, by words which had
issued from the white heat of his passion for her, a passion
unrebuked by her,—nay, rather, shared to the full. Was she then
guiltless of her husband’s death?
Not for a moment could Anna divide herself from Gregory in
responsibility for the action which Oliver had characterized as “moral
murder.” Unsparingly just to herself, she bore to the very limit of
reason all the fellowship which was imposed upon her by the
mastery of a love so long lived in its unconsciousness and silence, so
soon cut off, once perceived and acknowledged. It has been said
that “all great loves that have ever died, dropped dead.” Anna’s
mighty passion had been stillborn, slain by the words which had sent
Keith on his dim way to death. For she had never doubted that
Oliver’s rehearsal of the scene in the woods between Gregory and
Keith had been substantially true. She knew there had been spiritual
violence done, and her soul recoiled from the very strength and
power which had once enchained her. Something of diabolical pride
seemed to her now to invest even the austere morality of Gregory.
He would have spurned a yielding to the weakness of the flesh, his
moral fastidiousness would have made it impossible; but he fought
the fire of love fiercely with the fire of pride, not humbly with the
weapons of prayer. No shield of faith nor sword of the spirit had
been his in the hour of temptation, for all his high ideals, but the
sheer, elemental force of human will. He had conquered, or rather
had grappled with, the one passion; but the very force by which he
had conquered turned again and conquered him, and his very power
became his undoing.
Beside this conception of Gregory which had now taken
possession of Anna’s mind, Keith’s gentleness, his faithful, patient
life, above all, the greatness of the silent sacrifice which he had
made for her sake when he embarked on the Fraternia adventure,
became sacred and heroic. She saw at last what his leaving his
normal life had been; she believed, as she had said to Everett, that
he had literally given his life for her, and the sense of his devotion,
so little understood, so scantily recognized, wore ceaselessly at her
heart. Her one drop of balm was the memory of Keith’s last smile of
triumphant love and faith; the bitterest drop in her Cup of Trembling
that not one last word had been given her to show her by what
paths his soul had fared, and whether thoughts of peace had
lightened his sufferings. Having loved her, he had loved her to the
end,—this only she knew. His faithfulness had not failed.
Words which her father had spoken to her shortly before his
death, vaguely comprehended at the time, haunted her now, “With
greatness we have nothing at all to do; faithfulness only is our part.”
If only she had earlier discerned their meaning!
Such shape did these two men take to Anna now; the one who
had moulded all her outward life and touched her inner life hitherto
so faintly, the other who had mastered her in her innate longing for
power and freedom, and controlled her inner life for many years:
Keith seemed to her now like some spirit of gentle ministration,
humble, faithful, undefiled; Gregory, like some proud spirit, even as
Lucifer, son of the morning, who had said, ‘I will ascend into heaven,’
but who had been brought down to hell, dragging with him all that
was highest and holiest. And she had thought him so different! Like
another, her heart would cry out:—
“I thought that he was gentle, being great;
O God, that I had loved a smaller man!
I should have found in him a greater heart.”
Once, some weeks earlier, there had come to her a brief note from
Gregory, written soon after his return to Fraternia. It said only:—
“I have sinned deeply, against God; against him; most of all
against you. I cannot even venture to ask you to forgive. I can only
say to you, the penalty is wholly mine to bear. You are blameless.”
Having read the note, Anna threw it into the fire, and wrote no
word in return.
And for herself—?
There was no softness of self-pity in Anna’s remorse. Dry and
tearless and despairing, she saw herself, after long years of spiritual
assurance, of established and unquestioned righteousness,
overwhelmed at last by sin; not by the delicate and dainty and
inconclusive discords which religious experts love to examine and
analyze, but by a gross ground-swell of primitive passion, linking her
with men of violence and women of shame.
Looking back upon her girlhood, Anna thought with sad self-
scorning of her young desire for “a deeper sense of sin.” It had come
now, not as the initial stage in a knowledge of God, and of her
relation to him, but as a tardy revelation of the possibility of her
nature, undreamed of in her long security. The cherished formulas of
the old system, its measure of rule and line applied to the
incalculable forces of the human spirit; its hard, inflexible mould into
which the great tides of personal experience must be poured,
seemed to lie in fragments about her now, like wreckage after a
storm. She remembered that Professor Ward had once spoken to her
of her inherited religious conceptions as terrible in their power to
mislead, to deceive the heart as to itself; she saw the danger of a
belief founded not on infinite verities, but on a narrow mediæval
logic. She knew sin at last, and knew that it was not slain in the hour
of spiritual awakening.
She thought of the night preceding her union with her father’s
church, and the recoil of nameless dread with which she had seen
passing under her window the village outcast whom she supposed to
be incredibly guilty and cut off from fellowship with all who, like
herself, were seeking God. And it was that very night that she had
first dreamed of the mighty personality, the embodiment of power
and greatness, which she had thought to find in Gregory. Though
late, she now clearly perceived that in no human being could that
ideal of her dream find full manifestation.
Such thoughts as these were passing behind the pale mask of
Anna’s pain-worn face, which her mother’s eyes were watching. The
impress of suffering which they gave was hard to see, and a long
involuntary sigh escaped Gulielma Mallison’s lips.
Anna looked up with eyes as sad as those of Michel Angelo’s
Fates.
“Mother dear,” she said, her voice strangely dulled from its former
clear cadence, “why do you sigh? Do I make you unhappy?”
“I cannot comfort you, Anna Benigna,” said the mother,
sorrowfully. “It is for that I sigh.”
“No,” Anna said slowly, her eyes falling again from her mother’s
face; “you cannot do that, no one can. No one lives who can comfort
your child, mother.”
“I have often thought, Anna, that you may have suffered,” the
mother ventured almost timidly, “as many others have, from the sad
mistakes so common to people who regard the Christian life and the
married life as ends, instead of beginnings.”
Gulielma noticed a slight quickening of interest in Anna’s eyes, and
went on thoughtfully, with her simple philosophy of life:—
“To read the books that are written, and to hear the things that
are said, young people can hardly help supposing that when they
become Christians they will know no more of sin, and when they are
married they will have only joy and perfect union. To my way of
thinking, these wrong ideas are responsible for a great deal of
needless unhappiness. The Christian life is really a school, with hard
discipline and harder lessons. As for marriage—”
“Well,” said Anna, as her mother paused, “as to marriage?”
“It may be a crown,” said Gulielma, slowly, “but it is sure to be in
some measure a cross. It is a testing, a trial, a discipline, like the
rest of life. Only, whether it happens to be happy, or happens to be
hard, it is equally to be borne faithfully and in the fear of God.”
There was silence for a little space, and then a laughing voice in
the street outside, called:—
“Mrs. Mallison!”
Gulielma rose and stepped to the window, looking out over the
crimson and purple asters into the street. A young girl who stood
there handed her up a letter.
“I don’t know whether it belongs to Mrs. Burgess or not. The
address has been changed so many times, but the postmaster said I
was to ask you.”
“Very well,” was the answer, and as Gulielma turned back, a letter
in her hand, she found Anna sitting up, leaning upon her elbow, her
eyes strangely eager. She held out her hand, not speaking, and
received the letter. The upper line, which struck her eyes instantly,
was her own name, and it had been written by Keith. She could not
be mistaken. The mother’s anxious eyes saw every trace of colour
ebb away from Anna’s face and lips, and then stream back until the
faint flush rose to her forehead. She had not stopped to decipher the
many addresses written below, crossed and recrossed by many
pens, but, seeing her own name written by the dear dead hand, she
pressed the letter hard against her heart and so lay a moment,
silent.
Soon she looked up and met her mother’s eyes. A wistful, heart-
breaking request was in her own, which she hardly dared to speak.
“May I be all alone, mother?” she asked faintly; “my letter is from
him. It has gone wrong, but it has come to me, you see, at last. In
the morning I will see you. I will tell you then—all.”
In another minute, the door quietly closing, Anna found herself
alone. Breaking the seal, she saw that the letter had been written
three days before Keith’s death. An error in the original address,
doubtless due to his exhaustion, had sent it far astray. The letter
said:—
My own Anna,—I am here in Raleigh in a comfortable house, and with kind
people, but I fear that I am very ill, and that the end is now not far away, and I
want you as soon as you can come to me. I hope there will be no need of
alarming you with a telegram, for I know that you will start as soon as this
reaches you, and that will be in good time.
Do not think that this crisis is sudden and unforeseen. The physician in
Baltimore told me plainly that I could have but a short time to live, and when I
knew that I hastened to reach you as quickly as I might. It was for you only, Anna,
in all the world that I longed. I believed that a few weeks of quietness were for us,
not harder than we could bear, being together.
I think you will know that something turned me back almost at my journey’s
end. John Gregory is honest, and he will tell you, if indeed he knows himself.
I do not know now what he said to me, I do not care to remember. Whatever it
was it should have had no weight, being spoken, I know, under some strong
excitement, but with it there went that strange, irresistible influence which
Gregory exerts over me, and before which I was, or seemed to myself, powerless.
I felt his will was for me to go back, not onward to you, and I yielded as if unable
to do otherwise. I do not know, I cannot understand. I wish it had not been so,
but rather for him than for myself, for I know that in his higher mood the thought
of that night must be hateful to him.
I want to say now while I can that neither you nor he must look upon these
events in a way to exaggerate or overemphasize their importance. I can see that
you with your sensitive conscience and he with his great moral severity may judge
over hardly. The difference to me has not been great. The end was very near, and
is not hastened, and I shall see you yet before it comes. If I had not been weak I
should have kept on my way. It was my weakness that sent me back rather than
the outward compulsion.
I shall not want to talk of this when I see you, Anna, and so I will write to-day
some things which have come to my mind this winter, for I have come to see
many things in a new light.
John Gregory loves you. I do not blame him for that, nor wonder. “We needs
must love the highest when we see it.” He is a man of great power and of the
highest spiritual ambition. He is far nearer to you in ability than I; he could enter
more deeply into your purposes and sympathize in fuller measure with your
intellectual life. I believe you could have loved him, if you had been free, and that
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