Diggle was nowhere in sight.
The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated upon
his brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affront
was unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. With
startling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallized
into a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he raced
over the fields. He only knew that the moment for departure had come, and
he was hastening now to secure the little money he possessed and to make
a bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richard could
return.
Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, not daring to face his
mother, lest her grief should weaken his resolution, and in five minutes
he returned with his bundle. He stole out through the garden, skirted the
copse that bounded the farm inclosure, and ran for half a mile up the
lane until he felt that he was out of reach. Then, breathless with haste,
quivering with the shock of this sudden plunge into independence, he sat
down on the grassy bank to reflect.
What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years, ignorant
of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and voyage
into the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a standby; his
whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they suffice? Diggle's
talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of color and mystery and
romance, chiming well with his daydreams.
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