In that same rose garden, on the very bench on which she had sat awaiting Reginald's arrival on that momentous morning when she had consented to be his wife, Georgina now sat once more, but not alone. By her side was the _bonne_, and upon the _bonne's_ lap, wrapped in tranquil slumbers, lay the little Lucius. The young wife sat gazing at the infant, and as she sat she tried hard to come to a decision upon the course she should pursue. On the one side lay the path of duty. Should she make a clean breast of the matter? should she take her husband into her confidence? Should she ask him to give his name to the child of her cousin's shame? Or if she did so, could she for a moment suppose that he would for one instant listen to so monstrous a proposition? Of course there was her duty to be considered, her duty towards her husband, her duty towards her cousin; of what she owed herself she thought but little. But then she had sworn, and to some people, and Georgie was one of these, an oath remains ever binding. She felt herself securely caught, bound hand and foot in the net of intrigue, the meshes of which were so skilfully woven by her cousin's treacherous hands. Her mouth was sealed. Could she look forward with any pleasure to her husband's return? could it cause her aught but apprehension and a deadly fear that she, an innocent woman, was to pass the rest of her life in guarding a horrible secret, not her own, and in betraying her husband's confidence? But she had given her word; keep it she must, at whatever cost. How different had been her feelings on that well-remembered day, as she sat alone, in maiden meditation, and awaited her would-be lover's advent. Then there had been no anxiety in her anticipations of their meeting. It was very different now. A dreadful terror filled her heart; the fear of nameless horrors caused her hands to become cold and clammy. Should she appeal to his generosity? should she make an end of the whole ghastly story? If she could only nerve herself to do so, that was the one way out of the maze of doubt, the sole possible road to Georgie's future happiness. What right had Lucy to wreck her life? Hers was the sin; on her head let it be visited. But Georgie felt that she had gone too far already; the first step, that dangerous first step, in the path of deception had been unhappily taken. In her natural anxiety to shield her cousin she had yielded to her imperious demands. She had entered upon the lane of trickery, in which there is no turning back. She felt herself but a ship on a sea of troubles, whose helm was guided by that experienced sailor, her cousin Lucy. The little Lucius, the helpless centre of all the dark intrigue, clad in his garments of needlework, slept the sleep of innocence upon Fanchette's lap. Most women having so much cause would have hated the child, but to hate was not in Georgie Haggard's affectionate nature.