"I think the idea is disgusting," His Grace snapped impatiently; "but send your wire, by all means."
Then he abruptly turned the conversation, and presently Her Ladyship left him alone, very well pleased with her work! And the groom of the chambers was handed a warmly worded invitation to telegraph to Hornwell, as she passed to her room.
When he was left alone the Duke swore sharply to himself. He was not a man accustomed to the use of strong language—but occasions arose in life sometimes when a good sound oath seemed to relieve tension!
Then he paced up and down his long room. His imagination was on fire. He could see Katherine—he dwelt on the name "Katherine"—in the baboon embrace of old John Townly—loathsome picture!
Yes, of course, she would adorn any position, and Dullinglea was only a very moderate house. He could see her tall, slender, graceful figure sweeping in rich velvets through much larger rooms than it contained. Such rooms, for example, as these, his own at Valfreyne!
She would sit to-night between young Westonborough and old Barchester, but in a place where a gap in the flowers would give him, the host, a continuous view of her.
Then he went off to dress, in a fiery mood!
Katherine, meanwhile, had been looking over "Eothen," and noting the marked passages, which she found to be the same mutual favourites they had discovered that night at Gerard's.
Had her host underlined them since then, or were they marked before? Then she peeped at "Abelard and Héloise" and turned over all the leaves. None of them had any pencillings, but her eye caught this sensible paragraph, and it stiffened her jaded spirit, and made her feel more calm:
"'How void of reason are men,' said Seneca, 'to make distant evils present by reflection, and to take pains before death to lose all the comfort of life.'"
She was here at a splendid party as a guest like everyone else, and she must enjoy it and forget anything but the pleasure of the moment. But oh! if the Duke would only talk to her!
She wore the new white frock and looked quite beautiful, and some of the lilies of the valley shone in her belt.
Lady Garribardine was extremely pleased with her appearance and patted her arm.
"To-morrow Sir John Townly is coming over from Hornwell, child, and I want you to be agreeable to him for me, as I shall be very busy. You must take him for a little walk."
Her Ladyship knew that however irksome it would appear to Katherine, her command would be obeyed!
The Duke's eyes were full of suppressed passion at dinner, and his wit was caustic. Katherine could not hear it, but could see his face, and the puzzled expression which now and then came over the two ladies on either side of him; and once she met his gaze, and there was pain and a challenge in it. Excitement rose in her before dessert came. She knew—she felt—he was conscious of her presence—and that it was not indifference which kept him from her side. What was it all leading to? It was very evident that he was determined not to succumb to whatever it might be. It was also evident that he certainly did experience emotion.
Katherine felt unhappy, but this must not prevent her from talking politely and sympathetically to theladies she happened to be sitting next to in the great drawing-room, until the men came in. She remarked how protective and gracious her own dear Ladyship was being to her, saying a word in passing and making her feel at home and an equal and a guest. She must be very grateful for these things and not look ahead.
Why had this new and sudden sense of values come over her? This realisation of the frightful obstacle created by the blemish of the three days? At the dinner at Gerard's she had not so much as remembered them, their meaning had come in a flash with the thrill of the Duke's kiss of homage upon her hand. Had she been contemplating union with Sir John, she would have looked upon them as a fortunate experience to guide her in her knowledge of men. So this was some psychological witness to the demands of the spirit of—love! Of love that desires to give only the pure gold untarnished to the lover.
She felt like a caged bird, and her triumphant evening of pleasing women, and earning the admiration of all who spoke to her, tasted only as Dead Sea fruit.
Now the Duke, when the men left the dining-room, walked straight to his own sitting-room. He was a man of rapid action and supreme self-confidence. He opened the inner door softly and listened—there was no sound, he could move with impunity. There was no one in the passage room, but there was not a moment to be lost; the housemaids, he knew, would be coming round almost immediately with the cans of hot water for the night. He crossed the space and deliberately entered the green room, turning on the light as he did so.
He hastily looked about at the books—Yes, she had put the two special ones by her bed. And "Abelard and Héloise" was underneath; he pulled it out and quicklyfound a passage he wanted and with his gold pencil he scored it deeply underneath, and putting the volume on the top he swiftly left the room and was again in his own, and on his way to the white drawing-room. The whole affair had not taken two minutes. And with the knowledge of this fact accomplished, he looked almost serene as he sat down by a great lady's side and determinedly avoided looking at Katherine.
So the evening passed without speech between them beyond good-night, and Miss Bush retired sorrowfully to bed.
But she could not sleep, and kept on the light to read. There were "Eothen" and "Abelard and Héloise" close to her side, their order of placing reversed, since she had left them, this change effected by the housemaids, no doubt. And the love letters being on the top, she opened them first. She read many exquisite thoughts, and was just thinking of sleep when she turned a page and suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, for this is what she read:
"I wish to heaven you had not such a power over me." And the passage was deeply underlined.
Her heart beat to suffocation. There had been no such mark in this place when she had read this very page before dinner. How had it come there?—Who—Who?—But there was only one person who could have done such a thing—the Duke!
She bent nearer the lamp and devoured the lines again, and then she passionately kissed the words and turned out the light.
Next day, Sunday, a number of the party went to church, their host among them—but Katherine and Lady Garribardine did not accompany them. Theywere seated on the tennis lawn watching a game when the church-goers joined the group.
Three magnificent cedars of Lebanon made a great patch of shade, and here the chairs were placed. The Duke took one and stretched himself on it as though fatigued. His grey felt hat was tilted over his eyes. He made a pleasing picture of length of limb and grace and distinction—the same curious emotion crept over Katherine again as she had already experienced—half quiver, half shock—a strong desire to be very close to him, to touch him, to feel herself caressing and caressed. His hands were clasped idly upon his knee, and his voice as he spoke softly to a lady was lazy and complacent. Oh! how extremely bitter the whole situation was proving to be!
The emerald ring seemed to flash green fire as a tiny glint of sunlight struck it; it caught the attention of the sprightly dame to whom His Grace was talking.
"What a very wonderful ring that is you wear, Duke. Has it a history?"
"Yes, a very remarkable one."
Katherine listened, deeply interested, she had so often wondered about this ring, too.
"It has been in the family since the last Crusade. It came back with the tradition attached that it was the famous graven emerald seal which Theodoras made for Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, about 590 B. C., and which was in vain thrown into the sea to be lost! It was brought back to Polycrates in the body of a fish next day. Such exampled luck was considered to be ominous by his ally, Amasis, who broke off all alliance with him in consequence. And truly enough, he was not long after murdered from jealousy of his good fortune! The ring then disappeared and was supposed later to have been found by a Roman who handed it down for generations until it somehow got back into Greece, and when wrecked there on his way home from Palestine, the Rievaulx of the day obtained it from its owner, how, history does not say, and it has always been with us ever since—a strange belief attaching to it—that if life is happy it must not be worn, but that if things have gone ill then it is safe to wear it for the rest of time."
He put out his hand for the lady to look at the stone and a knot of interested people drew near.
"You see," His Grace continued, "it is deeply graven with a lyre—and sometimes it seems to be dull and sometimes it flashes angrily."
"Are you not afraid to wear it?" some tactless person said.
The Duke replied gravely—"Why should I be? I have amply fulfilled all the conditions attached," and then the company, remembering the dark and ugly shadow of the mad Duchess, which had hung over his life for so many years, all seemed to talk at once and so the slightly awkward moment passed.
But Katherine thought deeply upon the subject as she sat in a wicker chair.
Yes, how ill his life had gone, and he was now fifty-three years old, and if it were true that he felt enough to have taken the trouble to score that sentence in her book, his present frame of mind could not be altogether happy either, and she sighed—why was happiness so often a forbidden fruit?
For a second before lunch she happened to be standing near him, and so some kind of words were necessary for politeness' sake.
"I hope you find your room comfortable, Miss Bush, and that you have all that you want."
She looked straight into his eyes, and there was a world of meaning in hers as she answered.
"Everything, thank you—and I am especially interested in the books. The last guest who slept there must have taken liberties with your volumes and put strange pencillings under some of the paragraphs, which I only discovered last night."
"It was a man who occupied the room lately. What presumption he showed!"
"Yes, I wondered if you knew about it, the most significant marking is in the letters of 'Abelard and Héloise.' The scribbler had a turn for sentiment, it would seem, and probably was suffering from hallucinations as to his own state, which he imagined to be one of subjection."
"No, he was a level-headed fellow, who was not particularly happy, though. I remember, and no doubt he found solace in reading about the despairing passion of those two, and in underlining that passage which recordsAbelard'srebellion against pain so like his own."
Katherine sighed. "Happiness, alas! lies in the hand only of the very strong," and she passed on to another group.
And the Duke frowned a little as they went in to lunch.
Sir John Townly came over in the afternoon, as he had been invited to do, and Lady Garribardine intimated to her secretary that now she must take this incubus off her hands; so Katherine obediently proposed a stroll round the wonderful tulip beds, which were in full bloom. And Mordryn saw them go off together from the window where he stood.
"I really do not think it looks so ridiculous after all," Lady Garribardine remarked to him reflectively, complacence in her tone. "He is quite a fine figure of a man except for his perfectly bald head, and that does not show now in his hat."
The Duke made an exclamation of disgust.
"Poor Miss Bush!"
"I do hope she won't be foolish, but she has been so odd lately; I cannot understand these girls."
"Odd?"
"Yes—sad-looking and quiet—Of course I would not force her into anything she did not like, but still, Sir John would be better than some attractive and penniless young guardsman with nothing to offer but love's young dream.—There are one or two who come over from Windsor who rather hang about."
"Oh! yes, certainly," emphatically agreed the Duke, and then he thought of another sentence in that book which seemed such a bond between them, one whereAbelardwrote, "What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up!" Yes, to marry old Sir John would almost be the equivalent of a convent. But not quite! There was always the thought that, however old, he would still be the undisputed possessor of this most desirable piece of womanhood! His would be the right to clothe and feed her, and give her jewels. His to hold her in his arms. The realisation of all this was maddening to Mordryn, for he no longer disguised from himself that he profoundly desired to exercise these rights himself. And she had said that happiness only lay in the hands of the very strong.—Yes, but how could one define strong? Strong in fidelity to tradition and family and race and class? Or strong to break all barriers and seize that thing a man's heart cries out for passionately, his mate, his soul's and his body's mate? These were problems which were distressingly agitating to think over, and distracted his mind from the duties towards guests.
What a time she spent in pointing out those tulips to that old fool! What pompous gallantry his attitude expressed! Of course the girl must be bored to death. Why had she been "odd" lately, "quiet and sad"? Oh, how divine it would be to go off to the Belvedere presently and see the sunset from over there by the lake, and ask her many things, and then as they looked on the water from the marble terrace, if the falcon's eye grew sweet again and soft, to read dear messages there, and fold her to his heart!
She was so subtle, she understood every shade in anything he said, they had the same tastes and the same likings in books and art. She did not know Italy and France; what supreme pleasure to wander there, and discover their manifold beauties to her! And above all, she was young and fresh and passionate—who could doubt it who looked into her fair face, or knew anything about type? If she loved him she would never be cold, but would amply repay him for his long starvation and abstinence from joy. The lonely splendour of Valfreyne would then become a happy home filled with interest and affection. How was he going to get through another twenty years of dull duty after his twenty-five of anguish and grief? He supposed he might live to be eighty, even, the Monluces were a tenacious race!
Here Lady Garribardine deemed it prudent to divert his thoughts; she realised that the moment for the final good which would draw him over the brink into happiness had not yet come, so she spoke of soothing things,and then amused him and coaxed him into a more peaceful state; only again to see him restive when the pair eventually came in from the tulip beds.
Katherine looked tired and depressed, but Sir John had an air of gratification about him which made Mordryn feel that he could willingly have punched his head!
His good manners alone enabled him to bid a cordial farewell to the poor man when presently he left.
The sun was declining and the colours were opal over the lake. The duties of host to so many charming ladies restrained the Duke and he had the mortification of seeing Katherine and another girl go off with two of the young men in two canoes on the topaz waters, and by the time he went to dress he was almost desperate.
Katherine was in black to-night, and a red rose was in her belt. Where had she got it from? Had that insupportable young Westonborough, whom she had been in the canoe with, given it to her? Surely Bilton had not been so remiss as not to have seen that fresh lilies were put in the green room!—But perhaps she preferred the red rose; women were incredibly fickle and capricious!
Lady Garribardine perceived the expression of fierceness in his eyes, and so contrived that even a single sentence with Katherine was impossible. And thus the evening passed and good-nights were said, and there remained only the one more day!
Katherine read "Abelard and Héloise" far into the night. Her emotions were complex. She knew now that she was very unhappy and in a corner, and that she could not see clearly any way of escape. If she attracted the Duke further it would only increase the complications.
There was something in her nature which she feared was not strong enough to carry through deceit. Her great power had always lain in her absolute honesty, which gave her that inward serenity which engenders the most supreme self-confidence, and so inevitably draws the thing desired. Her mind was too balanced, and too analytical to give way to impulse regardless of cost, which in such a situation would have made nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand grab at the chance of securing Mordryn upon any terms. Of what good to obtain the position of Duchess if it only brought a haunting unease? Of what good to obtain the love of this true and splendid gentleman upon false pretences? She could then enjoy nothing of the results. For above all worldly gains she was well aware that to keep her own rigid self-respect mattered to her most. If his character had been less worthy of reverence—if she had not grown so near to passionately loving him—if she had not become aware of the importance in the eyes of the world of the barrier between them, and so of the magnitude of the offence involved in the deceit, she would have played her game to a finishwithout a backward thought; but as it was it were better frankly to give it up and perhaps marry—Sir John! For none of these considerations, she felt, came into the question of marrying Sir John. He was old and pompous and of no great family. She would be giving more than she received in bestowing her youth and her talents and her company upon him. She did not love him, therefore whether he should ever look upon her with scorn or no was a matter of indifference to her—and she would not for a moment have dreamed of any obligation to reveal that episode in her past to him, since the probabilities were so very remote that discovery could ever happen and therefore her silence would in no way injure him. It would be merely a bargain in which an old man bought a young woman "as she stood," so to speak, for the pleasure of his eye.
But the Duke of Mordryn was different—between them there could be no deceptions, no secrets, there must be none but the highest things, since marriage with him would mean the union of their souls. Katherine was far from being altruistic or sentimental, it was only the strictly common sense and baldly honest aspect of any case that ever influenced her.
The temptation was overpowering, of course, to brush aside moral qualms.—To think of reigning in this splendid place!—and she let her imagination run on—To think of being with the Duke always—his loved companion. The joy to make him very happy, and do everything he wished. What pains she would take to fulfil his highest ideal of her—to show to his world that whatever she had sprung from, at least she carried off the situation of Duchess in a manner in which they could find no flaw. She would be gracious and sweetand dignified and capable. She would bring all her reasoning to bear upon all problems. She would let him guide and direct her, and she would carry out his least behest.
But it could not be.She had made an initial mistake and miscalculation in her career through ignorance of possible results, and she could never shuffle out of it. Self-deception was of all mental attitudes the one she despised the most. She must face the consequence of her mistake now with courage, and take the second best.
Having once made up her mind in the early dawn, it was not in her nature to indulge in further repining. She as resolutely shut out the image of the Duke and the picture of happiness with him, as she had shut out Lord Algy. Only this time the pain was infinitely more bitter, because she knew that she was obliged to refrain from sipping this glorious cupbecause of her own miscalculation. Whereas when she parted from Lord Algy she had had the moral elation of knowing that she was doing rather a fine thing.
Extreme pallor showed in her face in the morning, and her great eyes were shadowed and sad. She remained in the ante-chamber at the writing-table which had been prepared for her, after she had breakfasted with Lady Garribardine in her sitting-room. Numbers of letters had come by the Sunday's post, and she made it seem necessary to answer them at once.
Her mistress allowed her to have her way. She felt some strong underneath currents were affecting the girl, and further tantalization would not be bad for the Duke. So she left her at the writing-table and joined the rest of the party under the cedar trees on the tennis lawn, and did not mention Katherine or her whereabouts. If Mordryn wanted to know why she had not come out, or where she was, he must pluck up courage to ask himself.
The Duke glanced at her enquiringly, but he said nothing—perhaps Katherine would follow presently—but could she have gone again on the lake with Lady Alethea and those empty-headed young men? He would not ask, he would go himself and see.
So when he had disposed of his important guests, he went to his own sitting-room from which there was a complete view of the waterways, and then he took the trouble to get out his glasses and scan the occupants of the boats.
No, she was not among them.
She must then either be still in her bedroom—or writing perhaps in front of the window of the passage place which was next this very room!
He would go out on the terrace from one of the windows and look in.
Yes—she was there seated at the table very busy, it appeared.
He came forward and stepping across the threshold, he stood beside her.
"Good morning, Miss Bush—it is quite wrong for you to be working on this glorious day. You must come out into the sunshine with the rest of us."
Katherine did not rise or appear to be going to follow his suggestion, so he added authoritatively:
"Now be a good girl and go and get your hat."
"I am very sorry I cannot before lunch; I have much work to do, and it becomes disorganised if I leave it unfinished."
"Nonsense! You did not come to Valfreyne to work. There are such a number of things I want to show you.Everyone is out in the garden, won't you at least come round the state rooms with me?"
How could she refuse him? He was her host and the pleasure would be so intense. She rose, but without alacrity and answered a little stiffly:
"I should much like to see them—if it will not take very long."
Her manner was distinctly different, he noticed it at once—a curtain seemed to have fallen between them ever since the conversation about the pencillings in the book. It chilled him and made him determined to remove it.
He held the door into his sitting-room open for her, and took pains to keep the conversation upon the ostensible reason for their voyage of inspection. He spoke of carving and dates, and told her anecdotes of the building of Valfreyne. And so they passed on through all the splendid rooms, "The King's Chamber," and "The Queen's Closet,"—and the salons and so to the great state suite of her who should be reigning Duchess.
And Katherine saw priceless gems of art and splendour of gilding and tapestry, and hangings, and great ghostly beds surmounted with nodding ostrich plumes. And stuffs from Venice and Lyons—and even Spitalfields.
"How wonderful!" she said at last—"And there are many other places such as this in England! How great and rich a country it is. We—the middle class population—shut in with our narrow parochial views—do not realise it at all, or we would be very proud of our race owning such glorious things, and would not want to encourage stupid paltry politicians to destroy and dissipate them all, and scatter them to the winds."
"It may seem hard in their view that one man should possess, we will say, Valfreyne."
"But how stupid! How could it all have been accumulated, but for individual wealth and taste and tradition? Who really cares for museums except to study examples in? Do you know, for instance, such people as my sisters would a thousand times rather walk through these rooms on a day when the public is let in, feeling it was a house owned by people who really lived there, than go to any place given to the nation, like Hampton Court or the Wallace Collection."
"That is the human interest in the thing."
"Yes, but the human and the personal are the strongest and most binding of all interests."
Mordryn looked at her appreciatively—he delighted in hearing her views.
"Then you have no feeling that you wish all this to be divided up among the people of Lulworth, say—the large town near?"
"Oh! no, no! So strongly do I feel for the law by which all goes to the eldest son, that were I a younger one, I would willingly give up my share to ensure the family continuing great. Who that can see clearly would not rather be a younger son of a splendid house, than a little, ridiculous nobody on his own account,—if everything were to be divided up."
"It is so very strange that you should have this spirit, Miss Bush. If you had not told me of your parentage I should have said you were of the same root and branch as Lady Garribardine. Are you sure you are not a changeling?"
"Quite sure. How proud it must make you feel to own Valfreyne, and what obligations it must entail!"
"Yes," and he sighed.
"It must make you weigh every action to see if it is worthy of one who must be an example for so many people."
"That is how you look upon great position—it is a noble way."
"Why, of course—it could not be right to hold all this in trust for your descendants, and for the glory of England, and then to think yourself free to squander it, and degrade the standard. All feeling would have to give way to worthily fulfilling your trust."
The Duke felt his heart sink—a strange feeling of depression came over him.
"I suppose you are right," and he sighed again.
"I was so much interested in the story of your ring," she said presently, to lift the silence which had fallen upon them both. "It is such a strange idea that great good fortune is unlucky—since we always draw what we deserve. If we are foolish and draw misfortune at the beginning of our lives, we must of course pay the price, but if people's brains are properly balanced they should not fear good fortune in itself."
"You think then that a whole life need not be shadowed with misery, but that if the price of folly is paid in youth, there may still be a chance of a happy old age?"
"Of course—One must be quite true, that is all, and never deceive anyone who trusts one."
"That would mean living in a palace of truth and would be impracticable."
"Not at all. There are some things people have no right to ask or to be told—some things one must keep to oneself for the carrying on of life—but if a person has a right to know, and trusts you and you deceivehim, then you must take the consequences of unhappiness which is the reflex action of untruth."
"How wise you are, child—that is the whole meaning of honour, 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.'"
She looked straight up into his eyes, hers were pure and deep and sorrowful.
"Now I have seen your beautiful home I must go back to my work—I shall always remember this visit, and this happy morning—all my life."
Mordryn was deeply moved, passionate emotion was coursing through him—with great difficulty he restrained the words which rose to his lips. He did not seek to detain her, and they retraced their steps, speaking little by the way, until they came to his sitting-room.
"When you go to-morrow, will you take with you the 'Eothen' and the 'Abelard and Héloise?' I would like to know that you read them sometimes and there is one passage inAbelard'sfirst letter which I know I shall have to quote to myself—It is on the fifty-fourth page, the bottom paragraph—you must look at it some time—"
Then his voice broke a little—"And now let us say good-bye—here in my room."
"Good-bye," said Katherine and held out her hand.
The Duke took it and with it drew her near to him.
"Good-bye—Beloved," he whispered, and his tones were hoarse, and then he dropped her hand; and Katherine gave a little sob, and turning, ran from the room, leaving him with his proud head bent, and tears in his dark blue eyes.
And she made herself return to her work—nor wouldshe permit her thoughts to dwell for an instant upon the events of the morning, or the words of the Duke—for she knew that if she did so she would lose control of herself and foolishly burst into tears. And there was lunch to be endured, and the afternoon and evening.
So this was the end—he loved her, but his ideas of principle held.—And if she was only a common girl and so debarred from being a Duchess—the Duke should see that no aristocrat of his own class could be more game.
Lady Garribardine found her still writing diligently when she came in just before luncheon would be announced, and she wondered what made the girl look so pale.
"It is quite too bad that you have sat here all this time," she exclaimed. "I won't have you bother with another word. This was to be your holiday and your amusement, this visit to Valfreyne, and you have been cooped up in the house working as if at home."
The Duke looked extremely stern at luncheon and was punctiliously polite to everyone, but those in his immediate vicinity were conscious that a stiffness had fallen upon the atmosphere which asphyxiated conversation.
Lady Garribardine was well acquainted with the signs of all his moods. This one, she knew, resulted from pain of some sort, and mental perturbation. What had occurred between him and Katherine? Could they have quarrelled? This must be ascertained at the earliest possible moment.
After luncheon they were all to motor to an old castle for a picnic tea, a beautiful ruin of a former habitation of the Monluces about five miles away.
Katherine should go with the younger people, and she should have the Duke to herself.
His manner was certainly preoccupied, and he spoke only of ordinary things as they went through the park.
"The party has been the greatest success, Mordryn. Are you pleased? Everyone has enjoyed it."
"Yes, I suppose it has been all right, thanks to your admirable qualities as hostess, dear friend. But how irksome I find all parties! I have been too long away from the world."
"I thought you seemed so cheery, Mordryn, yesterday, but to-day you look as glum as a church. You must shake yourself up, nothing is so foolish as giving way to these acquired habits of solitude and separation from your kind."
"I am growing old, Seraphim."
"Stuff and nonsense!" Her Ladyship cried. "You have never looked more vigorous—or more attractive, and you are not subject to liver attacks or the gout—so you have no excuse in the world for this doleful point of view."
"Perhaps not—It is stupid to want the moon."
"There are no such things as moons for Dukes; they are always lamps which can be secured in the hand."
"Not without fear of combustion or fusing as the case might be."
"Nothing venture nothing have. No man ought to sit down and abandon his moon chase—if he wants it badly enough he will get it."
"In spite of his conscience?"
Her Ladyship looked at him shrewdly—now was a moment for indicating her sentiments she felt—he might understand her as he so pleased.
"No, never in spite of his conscience, but inspite of custom or tradition or any other man-made barrier."
But although the Duke found much comfort in her words, he was not easily influenced by anyone and the torrent of his passion had not yet reached the floodgates, and was restrained by his will. So he turned the conversation and endeavoured to be cheerful. And Seraphim saw that for the moment she must leave things to fate.
Katherine looked quite lovely at tea. Her new air of rather pensive gentleness suited her well. She showed perfect composure, there was no trace of nervousness or self-consciousness in her manner, only her eyes were sad.
What dignity, the Duke thought as he watched, her conduct and attitude during the whole visit had shown! He knew it must have been a moment of exceptional excitement to her to come there among his and Lady Garribardine's friends, as one of them, and yet not for a second had she shown anything but composure and ease, talking with quiet politeness to whoever addressed her, neither with subservience nor with expansiveness, but with exactly the consideration which so becomes a great lady, even if she is but a girl. He looked at her again and again, and could find only something further to respect and admire.
He wondered how much she was feeling? What had that little sob meant? Pain as well as understanding assuredly. Was she, too, longing secretly to be taken into his arms—as with every fibre of his being he was burning with desire to hold her? Or did she not really care, and was the attention of young Westonborough enough to divert her—and would she eventually marry Sir John?
This last thought was disgusting! but His Grace of Mordryn had not the type of mind like that of Gerard Strobridge, to take comfort in the thought that if she did so, his own chance of future joy would be the greater. No touch of anything but reverence was in his heart towards Katherine.
And so the afternoon passed with much suffering in two souls, and the rainbow tints of the evening came over the sky. The chestnut trees were the softest fresh green, and the oaks only just out. Copper beeches and limes and firs all added to the beauty of tint. And young birds were twittering their good-nights; the whole world was full of love, and springtime promise of joy.
And Mordryn battled with himself and banished temptation, and had his sitting-room blinds drawn immediately to hide all these sweet things of nature, when they returned, and stayed alone there until it was time to dress for dinner, saying he had important letters to write.
But all the while he was conscious that just beyond that door and that passage, there was a woman who seemed to matter to him more than anything else in life!
The whole afternoon had been such a wretched tantalization. A long duty when he had spoken as an automaton to boring guests. He had not sought to talk to Katherine; that good-bye in the morning had been final, there could be no anticlimax, that would make it all futile.
And she hadunderstood, she had realised his motive—this he knew and felt, but took no comfort from the thought.
And Katherine, with half an hour to herself, lookedfor and found that passage on page fifty-four of "Abelard and Héloise" and she read:
I remove to a distance from your person with an intention of avoiding you as an enemy. And yet I incessantly seek for you in my mind—I recall your image in my memory and in such different disquietudes I betray and contradict myself.—I hate you!—I love you! Shame presses me on all sides. I am at this moment afraid I should seem more indifferent than you are, and yet I am ashamed to discover my trouble.
I remove to a distance from your person with an intention of avoiding you as an enemy. And yet I incessantly seek for you in my mind—I recall your image in my memory and in such different disquietudes I betray and contradict myself.—I hate you!—I love you! Shame presses me on all sides. I am at this moment afraid I should seem more indifferent than you are, and yet I am ashamed to discover my trouble.
Well—if he felt like that—what could be the end?
London seemed very noisy and tumultuous to Katherine when they returned to Berkeley Square, and the routine of her work came almost as a relief.
What would be the outcome of this visit to Valfreyne? She could not guess. That the Duke loved her she knew—but with what kind of love? With an almighty passion which one day would break all barriers and seek for fulfilment? Or with a restrained emotion which, when the temptation of her presence was removed, would settle down? But of what matter really whether he loved her with the one or the other, since both were equally forbidden and useless!
And she?—What were her feelings? She knew in her heart that if she were to permit herself to indulge in natural emotion, she could shower upon him a love that in its white heat of devotion and passion would make that which she had formerly given to Lord Algy appear but a puny schoolgirl thing.
She must not give way to any such feelings, though; the pain was quite bitter enough as it was—and nothing but stern discipline of mind and an iron self-control could make it bearable at all.
She felt restless during that week—on tenterhooks to know if she should see the Duke; hot and cold as she went into a room. But he did not come and she heard casually that he was still at Valfreyne. And on Saturday morning they went down to Blissingtonuntil the Monday afternoon, as was their custom at each week-end.
Lady Garribardine watched Katherine critically and knew that she was suffering, and so she was unusually kind and witty and sarcastic, and acted as a tonic. She had a shrewd way of looking at men and things which always delighted Katherine, and they seemed to grow closer friends than ever.
"You are a great comfort to me, girl," she said. "I can talk to you and air all my notions as I could to a man—and you do not answer upon another subject. For you know, my dear, that if the basis of your argument with nine women out of ten happens to be that the sea is salt, they will reply that on the contrary the moon is made of green cheese! You mildly protest that it is the taste of the sea, not the composition of the moon which is in question, and then they say they totally disagree with you and that the sun is warm! You are done!—There is nothing left for you but to smile and talk of clothes!"
Katherine laughed delightedly. How well she knew this style of argument! Matilda had always practised it.
"I believe I owe to my dear lady the faculty of seeing a little differently."
"Not at all!—You always were as sharp as a needle. I may merely have encouraged you perhaps."
"It is through your kindness and sympathy that I have emerged and broken away from the stultifying bonds of my class. Oh! if you only knew how deep is my gratitude!"
She was very seldom moved like this, and Lady Garribardine looked at her closely.
"Tut, tut, child—you were made for great things,and it is because I realised this at once, almost, that I have sympathised with you. I could not have kept you back any more than I could have created qualities in you. I could merely have delayed your upward progress or, as I hope I have done, advanced it. The spirit in you is God-given and I have nothing to do with it."
Katherine's eyes softened with love and reverence! Her dear, dear friend and benefactress!
When she was alone, Lady Garribardine thought deeply over everything, their respect and affection were mutual. It troubled her a little to see the girl so quiet—Mordryn had played quite fairly, she hoped—but yes—he could never do otherwise. She guessed what was the reason of the estrangement—if estrangement there was—on his side, and it caused her no permanent concern.
"When a man feels as Mordryn feels, no class prejudice in the world will keep him from the woman in the end! Only let him suffer enough and then give them an opportunity to meet, and all will be well!"
Thus she mused—And what a weight off her mind it would be to see them happily married! So that her conscience might be at rest, and she could feel that she had more than made up for her action of long ago. Yes—Katherine Bush was a peerless creature, and would be the brightest jewel in any crown. Not a trace of the jealousy or antagonism, which once or twice for the fraction of a second had sprung up from natural hereditary instinct and class prejudice, remained in her heart. Her clear and wise judgment had sifted and weighed all the pros and cons. No two human beings on earth were more suited to one another than her humble secretary from Bindon's Green and this great nobleman. And she could launch Katherine successfully, and make her accepted without question. And after the marriage, she could safely leave to the girl's own superb tact and common sense the task of maintaining the position of Duchess with illustrious distinction. So that the only barrier left to be overcome was Mordryn's tiresome prejudice about class. That most annoyingly obstinate sense of duty, andnoblesse oblige—duty to his rank and to his race. But his mind was not narrow, and once he could have time freely to think out what real nobility meant, he would realise that highness of birth was not essential at all.
Lady Garribardine knew the Duke's nature so well; she was aware that if she spoke to him upon this subject and sought to influence him more than her speech at the picnic had already done, his desire being so forcibly upon her side, he would then still more determinedly make up his mind not to be convinced from the fear that he was allowing inclination to weaken his sense of duty.
To leave fate to manage matters was the best plan, and to be ready to give a helping hand at the critical moment.
Mordryn was certainly suffering deeply or he would have returned to London, instead of staying on at Valfreyne.
Not by word or insinuation did she ever indicate to Katherine that she had remarked the Duke's interest in her, or the apparent cooling of it. Indeed, since that day at the Easter party when she had lightly spoken of his coming to the schoolroom, she had never mentioned him to her secretary in connection with herself at all. So on the surface everything was calm and peaceful, and life flowed in its accustomed stream.
Mordryn must be made to come to Berkeley Squareagain as of old, and he must not be allowed to see Katherine for some time. He must get into the way of dropping in as usual without fear.
And in the third week after Whitsuntide, the Duke returned to town and did dine there, and Miss Bush was nowhere to be seen. He had spent very miserable days down in his beautiful home. He had not reached the stage of reason yet, he was merely fighting desire with all his might—while daily it grew stronger.
How cold her hand had been when they had said a polite good-bye on the Tuesday morning; he could feel it through the glove! How pale her face had looked, too! He hoped to God she was not suffering; that would be too cruel, and he could not feel guiltless if it were so. He had certainly played upon her feelings, although in the most subtle manner, which made his conduct the more cowardly and inexcusable. This thought brought extreme discomfort, and plunged him into frantic work. He filled all his hours with the business of his estate, in order to banish memory, but with no great success, so at last he came up to London, determined to crush out every weakness. But when he went to Berkeley Square to dine he felt agitated, and he knew that he was fearing and yet hoping to see Katherine.
But he caught no glimpse of her, nor was she even mentioned, it was as though she had never been. He grew anxious—had she left Seraphim's service? This must be ascertained immediately, before he left the house.
"Miss Bush is not dining to-night, Seraphim?" he said, after dinner, when he had a moment with his hostess. "I hope she is well?"
"Yes, thanks," and Her Ladyship turned the conversation at once, so that he was left with this meagre information.
As he drove away to St. James's, he found himself thinking incessantly of the girl.
She had understood. She was so fine, she had grasped the situation completely—had she not herself explained to him the duty he owed to his race?
But a woman who could take such an abstract view must surely have a very wonderful soul! Every one of her ideas had shown the highest sense of duty, the most profound grasp of what was meant bynoblesse oblige. He remembered even her remark about his attending the House of Lords, how she had said it was cowardly of him to shirk his work there just because he so despised modern views. In what high esteem, too, she was held by Seraphim—a woman not to be imposed upon by any mere charm, and one who would bring the most critical judgment to bear upon every question before she would accord her friendship.—And that Katherine had Lady Garribardine's friendship in full, he knew.
He went into his library which looked out on the Green Park, and he opened the window side and walked on to the terrace. In the distance the roar of Piccadilly thundered by, but his immediate neighbourhood was quiet and he could think.
He reviewed every minute incident from the beginning of his acquaintance with Katherine that night not so very long ago at the house of Gerard Strobridge. She had admitted that it was she herself who had desired this meeting after she had heard him speak. That proved that she had been drawn to him even then. And how attractive she had appeared, how cultivated and polished, how clever and refined! And to think thatsuch achievement was the result of steadfastness of purpose! A will to compass an ideal against extraordinary odds. An intelligence great enough to realise that facts alone count, and that no assumption of the rights of ladyhood, or demonstration in words, would convince anyone, but only the inward reality of fineness of soul directing outward action. How much more meritorious and to be respected was her achievement then than if these things had been her natural heritage! She had obtained a state of perfection through deliberate intention in a far greater degree than anyone he knew but Seraphim. Her every idea, thought, expression and point of view, accorded exactly with his own. Her sense of duty was paramount. Her level-headedness, and her common sense, and her balance were such as he had never before seen in woman.
And she was young and beautiful, and in perfect health. No nervous fancies beset that evenly poised brain.
Suddenly, as he stared up into the deep blue starlit sky, it seemed that the scales fell from his eyes, and fog was lifted from his inner vision of the soul.
This beloved creature—daughter of an auctioneer and granddaughter of a butcher—was truly and really an aristocrat in the purest and truest sense of the term. And just because he could trace his pedigree back for countless generations, who was he to stand aside and not give her her due when her spirit and character were so infinitely above him? (Thus love engenders humility in noble hearts!)
Where in the whole world could he find one so worthy to share his great name and great estate? He laughed aloud in glee! It would not be giving way to temptation for personal joy to think of her as his Duchess,but it would be conferring the greatest honour upon his house that it had ever known.
He marvelled at his blindness—marvelled at his pitifully conventional point of view. How had it ever weighed with him a second? How had he not realised at once the utter paltriness of the designation of aristocrat unless the inner being carries out what that word is intended to convey?
He thought of his wife Laura, with her stupid, mean little brain, developing into madness. He thought of Gerard's wife Beatrice—of what use was she to any man? He thought of his own cousin, Dulcie Dashington, with her vulgar barmaid's instincts, and her degradation of her great state, and he thought of all the crew of frivolous, soulless, mindless worldlings who had flung themselves at his head at Blissington, any one of whom society would call a well-bred lady suitable for him to marry and take to his home!
And then he thought of Katherine's simple dignity. She had not tried to entrap him. She had not been insulted at his holding back, she had understood. In her humility of greatness, she hadunderstoodwhat would be likely to be his view—or rather the view of his class.
But now he saw the truth, and the truth was that she stood out a star among womankind and none other was worthy to tie the latchet of her shoe.
He would not hesitate another second. He would telephone in the morning to Seraphim and propose himself for Saturday, and then he should see her—this sweet Katherine—and talk to her and tell her the truth. And if she would so honour him then she should be his own.
The vision exalted him. He let his imagination,curbed and denied expression for so long, have full rein. She was not cold by nature, she would not have to simulate passion like Julia Scarrisbrooke! Hers, if she felt it at all, would be real. She had experienced that part of love before. He even thought of this without a pang, for that was past—and something told him that she was not indifferent to him now. How enchanting to make her really love him—how divine to teach her all the shades of that "something beyond" which she had asked him about!
And then their life together there at Valfreyne! Yes, this was the true kind of strength which she had spoken of, the strength which breaks down all shams.
And to think how near he had been to allowing the stupid, blind, hypocritical ideas of his world to part them forever! He must have been mad, since he had known her worth always, from the first day. Seraphim would help him after all—had she not told him not to go against his conscience, but only against custom and tradition and any other man-made barrier? And now conscience was with him, and he would break every bar which divided him from his heart's delight!
Lady Garribardine's surprise was great on receiving the telephone message in the morning: Might His Grace speak to Her Ladyship personally?
Katherine repeated the message of the servant.
Certainly His Grace might.
Katherine handed the receiver and was preparing to leave the room, but Lady Garribardine made a sign for her to stay while she sat up in bed.
"Is that you, Mordryn—Oh!—Why, of course you may come down to-morrow! Yes—London is hot. It will only be a dull party—Gwendoline and the Colvins and old Tom Hawthorne. I was merely going for restmyself. You don't mind, you would like that?—Oh! very well, come either by motor or the three o'clock train. All right—good-bye."
Then she looked at Katherine who met her eyes with a perfectly unmoved face.
"The Duke proposes himself to come to us to-morrow at Blissington, he is bored with London, and out of sorts."
But no joy appeared on the secretary's countenance; in fact she turned a shade paler, as she asked if she should transmit any orders to the housekeeper about his room.
"She feels things like the devil," Her Ladyship thought. "But Mordryn has evidently come to his senses, so they will presently settle the matter all right."
Katherine was glad that her duties now took her out shopping, she felt she must be in the open air and free to think.
What did this mean? Why was he coming to Blissington so suddenly? Would it produce a climax in her fate?
And as Mordryn had done the night before on his terrace overlooking the Green Park, so she too reviewed all their acquaintance and what it had grown to mean to her—something very bitter sweet.
Should she allow herself a fool's paradise for just a day? Should she let him make love to her, if that was his intention in coming to Blissington? But no, she must be firm with herself and act always as she thought right. But her mind was in a turmoil, and she felt tired and excited. The picture held out nothing but pain.
If he came and made love to her, she would have tocut his protestations short. And if he ignored her, that would hurt still more. She devoutly wished she might run away.
At luncheon the next day, after their arrival at Blissington, Her Ladyship said rather irrelevantly:
"You look thoroughly tired out, girl. I advise you to take a rug and a book and go out under the chestnut trees in the beautiful air, and have a nap—and don't come in for tea if you do not want to, there are so few of us I can manage by myself."
And Katherine, glad to escape, did as she was bid.
When the Duke arrived by motor, tea had just been brought out on the terrace at the eastern side of the house. His glance travelled rapidly over the group. Miss Bush was not present.
His impatience had been growing and growing ever since the Thursday night when his resolution had been taken, and now he almost felt like a boy in his great disappointment at noting Katherine's absence.
How was he going to talk to the Colvins and Tom Hawthorne and old Gwendoline! However, he did manage to be almost his usual self, though Lady Garribardine was quite aware that his nerves were strung to a high tension.
She got through tea as quickly as possible, and then walked him off to see a new set of herbaceous borders.
The very second that they were alone, Mordryn began to talk openly to her. He had determined to have no further cross purposes of any kind.
"Do you guess, Seraphim, what has brought me here to-day?" he asked.
"I have some shrewd idea—you have decided to appreciate reality and discard appearance, as my Katherine Bush would say."
"That is it. Have I your sympathy, dear friend?"
"My warmest sympathy, Mordryn; your happiness means a very great deal to me. I have had some horrible moments in those past years, of remorse for mypart in your sorrows—but if you secure this girl, I can feel that you will be amply compensated."
"I am deeply in love, Seraphim, and you, I know, will not laugh at me, or think it absurd."
She gave him a frank smile full of affection.
"Indeed, no—and what is more important, the girl will not laugh either. She is full of passion, Mordryn—have you ever watched her little nostrils quiver? You will have no colourless time with her! She is not of the type of poor Läo Delemar, Gerard's friend, or Julia Scarrisbrooke! The fierce red blood rushes through her veins!—But she is too entirely self-controlled to let even me see what her real feelings are, though I shrewdly suspect she is in love with you—You, the man, Mordryn—and not, strange to say, the Dukedom at all!"
His Grace thrilled with delight—as why not, indeed! Of all beautiful and maligned things, he knew real passion was the rarest!
"If it had been the Dukedom, she could have tantalized me into committing any madness—weeks ago—but she has done nothing of the sort. She has simplyunderstood, that is the wonderful part."
"She is an amazing creature, a wonderful character, old friend—perfectly honest and intensely proud. Not with the pride which sticks its chin in the air, but that which carries the head high; there is all the difference in the world between the two. Upstarts nearly always have their chins in the air, but are unacquainted with the other attitude. She will make the most perfect Duchess your house has ever known—And think of your children!"
The Duke drew in his breath sharply, a new joy permeated him at her words—"Just think of your children! Why, my dream of the six sturdy boys may yet come true!"
"Seraphim—really!"
Her ladyship chuckled happily. "Now we must use common sense; there must not be a flaw in the whole affair. If she agrees to marry you, I will begin to arrange the situation at once. I will bring her out more and present her to people—and we will not announce the engagement for a few weeks. No one will dare to question who she is, or where she came from if I choose to do that. Some of them may even suggest that she is the result of some past indiscretion of one of the family that I have adopted. They may think what they like! She is so absolutely honest, she would tell anyone the truth herself without a care—but I think I shall advise her to be silent, and let people make up what they please. No one can dispute her perfect refinement or suitability to take any position in the world."
"Seraphim, you are an angel."
"No, I am not—I am merely a capable craftsman. I like to do everything I undertake well. Your Duchess shall start unhandicapped."
"How deep is my gratitude, dear friend!"
"Tut, tut!"
But her dark eyes beamed mistily. "When I see you safely off—with the knot tied, on your way to Valfreyne for the honeymoon—I shall feel content."
"Where is she?"
"I told her to go and rest under the chestnuts this afternoon. She looked as pale as a ghost."
"May I find her there, then, now?"
"Yes—be off! And bless you!"
They wrung hands, and the Duke strode away looking, as Her Ladyship admitted, with a fond half-sigh, still the hero of any woman's dream. His years sat so lightly upon him.
But he searched under the chestnuts and beyond, and Katherine was nowhere to be seen. A rug was folded beneath one great trunk—she had evidently been there, and had now wandered on and perhaps was not far off.
He continued his search for some time without success, and when he reached the edge of the near woods, with their beautiful paths, some of which ran down to a bit of ornamental water just big enough to be called a lake, he stopped, puzzled as to which one to follow. His heart was beating as it had not beat for years. He decided to go straight to the water's edge to a Chinese tea-house which was there, and when he came at length in sight of this, he perceived the flutter of a grey linen skirt disappearing round the corner of it—On the verandah which overhung the water, there were great white water lilies growing in masses just beneath, while two stately swans swam about in the distance; the sun was sinking, it was past six o'clock; and the lights were very lovely and all was serene and still.
His footfalls did not sound on the soft turf, and Katherine did not know of his approach until he actually stood before her on the broad verandah step.
She was leaning against the balustrade gazing out over the lake, and she turned and caught sight of him.
He came forward with outstretched hands, his face aglow.
"So I have found you at last!" he cried, gladly. "What made you hide away here all alone?"
Katherine controlled herself sternly. She shook hands calmly, saying it was cool by the water and a pleasant place to be.
"Solitude is good sometimes."
She had felt too restless to stay beneath the trees—even her will could not keep her disturbed thoughts from speculation as to what the day might bring. And now the Duke was here beside her, and the situation must be faced.
He came close and leaned upon the quaint wooden rails trying to look down into her averted face, while he whispered:
"I had rather enjoy asolitude à deux."
He saw that she was pale and that her manner was restrained. Did she possibly misunderstand the purpose of his coming?
"Look," and she pointed over to the swans—"they perhaps agree with you—they swim lazily about together, dignified and composed, far from turmoil and agitating currents. One envies the birds and beasts and fishes—sometimes," and she sighed.
"You must not sigh—look at me, Katherine. I want to see your eyes."
But she disobeyed him and turned the broad lids down. He leaned closer still, and this caused a wave of emotion to sweep over her, producing the same feeling which she had once thought only Lord Algy in all the world could evoke in her—so that the Duke saw those little nostrils quiver, which his friend Seraphim had spoken to him about, and the sight gave him great joy.
"Look at me, Katherine!" and now his voice was full of command.
Then she slowly raised her gray-green eyes and he saw that they were troubled, in spite of the passion that lay in their depths.
"Why do you come here and speak to me like this?"and in her voice there was reproach. "We said farewell at Valfreyne—that was the end—I understood—Why do you come again to trouble me now?"
"Because I could not keep away—because I love you, darling child."
She drew back, shivering with the pain of the struggle which was developing in her soul.
"Hush, you must not say that to me, I ask you not to, please."
But since coldness and repulsion were not what he read in her glance, her words did not discourage him.
"I was very foolish at Valfreyne, Katherine, ever to have said farewell, but now I have come here to Blissington to tell you that I love you passionately, my darling, and your dear sympathy and understanding saw into my mind, and grasped the prejudices therein. But now the blindness has fallen from my eyes—I adore you, my Beloved One—Katherine, I want you to be my wife."
His voice had never been more beautiful. His splendid presence had never appeared more impressive, nor the fascination of the man more supreme. And he was there, a suppliant before her asking her to be his wife!
For a few seconds her brain reeled. The summit of her ambition was reached—and not ambition alone, but what now seemed to matter more, the realisation of true love. Both were there for her to take and to enjoy. The fateful moment had come. She was face to face with the great problem of her life. How could she relinquish all this glory, just to keep faith with her ideal of right?
She looked up into his proud face and saw it transfigured with worship, and she gave a little cry—No,she could never deceive him, he was far too fine for that. Whatever came, between them there should be only truth. But even so, a flood of passionate emotion burst all bonds, the whole deep currents of her nature were stirred, and must find vent before the final renunciation.
"Ah!" she cried, and let herself be clasped in his embrace, then, "I love you, I love you!" she went on wildly.—"Kiss me—hold me, let me feel what it is like to be there next your heart—what it would mean—what itcouldmean, if it might only be.—Oh! you do not know what it costs really to say good-bye—Do you remember once when I told you that I knew one side of love and asked you if there was not something beyond? Well, I know now that there is—you have taught me to feel it—It is the soul's victory—I love you with everything in me, with my body and my spirit and my life!"
But she could articulate no further, for the Duke, intoxicated with emotion, strained her to his heart, bruising her lips with kisses which seemed to transport them both to paradise.
Here was no timid lover! But one with a nature as fiercely passionate as her own!
"Ah, God, how divine!" and he sighed when at last after long, blissful seconds his lips left hers. "Katherine, how dare you talk such folly to me of bidding me good-bye! You shall never leave me again, you are absolutely mine."
"Hush!" and she put her hand over his mouth tenderly, while she drew herself out of his arms. "As far as love goes I am indeed all yours, the mightiness of this passion has swept away all other thoughts, but now you will have to listen to me—and you must notspeak until the end.—See, let us sit here for the story is long."
Just to humour her he allowed her to draw him to the seat, and with eyes devouring her with fond impatience, he waited for her to begin.
"Promise that you will not interrupt me until I have finished, no matter what you may feel or think."
He gave his word quite gaily and took and held her hand.
Katherine controlled her every nerve now and told the story in a deep, quiet voice—with no dramatic gestures, drawing a graphic picture of her home and of the office at Liv and Dev's and the effect upon her of the voices of the gentlemen who came to borrow money. And then she told of the coming of Lord Algy and of their acquaintance, and then she paused for a second and glanced at Mordryn's face. It had grown a little strained, but he grasped more tightly her hand.
"Now you must listen very carefully and try to understand. I suppose I must have been in love with him in a passionate kind of way, he was so very handsome and gay and full of charm—Well, I decided to go away with him for three days—I decided deliberately, not so much from love as because I wanted to understand life, and to know the nature of men, and the point of view of an aristocrat."