plunged headlong,
eager to escape the sight of that accursed rock and its harrowing
sounds. I had not been far wrong in my estimate of her and of Jerry. I
would to God he had strangled her.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY

Una and her mother did not come to Horsham Manor during the following
week, and it was early in June before Jerry ordered the rooms to be
prepared for them. Jack Ballard, too, having at last found Newport
irksome, promised to make up the house-party.

It did not seem to me that Jerry was especially overjoyed at the
prospect of these guests. During the week or more that followed his
encounter with Marcia in the woods, he had reverted to his former
habits of strolling aimlessly about when he wasn't at Briar Hills or
in town, at times cheerful enough; at others obstinately morose. But
he did not drink. Whatever the differences between us, he evidently
thought seriously enough of his word to me to make that promise worth
keeping. I know he believed me to be meddlesome and with good reason
(if he had known all), but he would not let me leave the Manor. I was
a habit with him, a bad habit if you like, but it seemed a necessary
one. Nevertheless in spite of the apparently pleasant nature of our
relations, there was a coolness between us. Much as he loved me, and I
was still sure that Marcia had made no real change in that affection,
there was a new reserve in his manner, meant, I think, to show me that
I had gone too far and that his affair with Marcia was not to be the
subject of further discussion between us.

Had he known how thankful I was for that! I knew all that I wanted to
know of Marcia Van Wyck and of their curious relations. And
unfortunate as my ambush had seemed, demeaning to my honor and painful
to my conscience, I had begun to look upon my venture beneath that
infernal rock as a kind of mixed blessing. At least I knew!

Of Una, Jerry said much in terms of real friendship and undisguised
admiration--of his visits to her in town and the progress of her work,
a frankness which, alas! was the surest token of his infatuation
elsewhere. And yet I could not believe that the boy was any more
certain of the real nature of his feeling for Marcia than he had been
a month ago. He was still bewildered, hypnotized, obsessed, his joyous
days too joyous, his gloomy ones too hopeless. Like a green log, he
burned with much crackling or sullenly simmered. But the fire was
still there. Nothing