He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his breast.
"We must part," I go on, more steadily. "I must leave you: but, oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could not go there."
I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought of such a home-coming. How could I summon courage to meet all the whispers, the suppressed looks, the very kindnesses, that day by day I should see?
"And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully: "memory would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go? Send me, you—somewhere."
I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his chest. I wait a long time. Whatever struggle is going on within him takes place silently. He makes no sign of agony; he does not move; his very heart, on which I lean, has almost ceased to beat. At length he speaks, and as the words cross his lips I know that he has conquered, but at the expense of youth and joy and hope.
"There is Hazelton," he says; "it is a pretty place. It was my mother's. Will you go there? And—-"
"Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly.
"What servants will you take with you?" he asks me, presently, in a dull, subdued way; all impatience and passion have died within him.
"I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. You must go to Hazelton and get me a few from the neighborhood round it—just three or four, who will know nothing of me, and seek to know nothing."
"Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, who has known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old and valued servant; he will watch over you, and take care of you."