The blessed thought came to him as he lay in bed at Bodyfauld: he
would attempt the passage the very next day.
With his violin in its paper under his arm, he sped like a hare from
gate to door, found it not even latched, only pushed to and rusted
into such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges to disturb. He
opened it, however, without any accident, and passed through; then
closing it behind him, took his way more leisurely through the
tangled grass of his grandmother's property. When he reached the
factory, he judged it prudent to search out a more secret nook, one
more full of silence, that is, whence the sounds would be less
certain to reach the ears of the passers by, and came upon a small
room, near the top, which had been the manager's bedroom, and which,
as he judged from what seemed the signs of ancient occupation, a
cloak hanging on the wall, and the ashes of a fire lying in the
grate, nobody had entered for years: it was the safest place in the
world. He undid his instrument carefully, tuned its strings
tenderly, and soon found that his former facility, such as it was,
had not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hastening back as he came, he
was just in time for his dinner, and narrowly escaped encountering
Betty in the transe. He had been tempted to leave the instrument,
but no one could tell what might happen, and to doubt would be to be
miserable with anxiety.
He did the same for several days without interruption--not, however,
without observation.
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