The old man had made up his mind to be left in peace for this evening, so he said:
“Poor Basting! He’s always got something or other to chatter about.”
“I was sure it was untrue,” said Ingeborg, rising; and after drawing the blind farther down, she quietly left the room again.
The next morning, before Norby rose, his wife asked him whether he had remembered to call at the clerk’s. Upon his saying that he had not, a scene ensued, and Marit left the room, slamming the door behind her, and threatening to go to the sacrament alone.
Norby lay in bed longer than usual, for when Marit was thoroughly roused, as she was to-day, she would sometimes not utter a word for a week at a time; and then neither of them was willing to stoop low enough to be the first to bridge the gulf that separated them, and break the silence.
When at last he came down and went out into the yard, one of the men came up to him and asked with a knowing smile whether it were really true that Wangen had forged somebody’s signature.
“It would be very like him if he had!” said Norby, looking up at the sky to see if it were weather for tree-felling. The man, who was busied in shovelling the snow from the road, leaned upon his spade, and looking askance at the old man, continued:
“We’ve heard that it’s your name. He’s been boasting that it’s Norby himself that is surety for him; but now we hear from the house servants that it’s a lie.”
“It’s no business of that idiot’s anyhow!” thought the old man, and passed on without answering.
But on going round by the barn, where threshing was in progress, he had the same question of Wangen’s forgery put to him. He still made no answer, but plunged his hand into the grain at the back of the machine, whereupon an old labourer said, as he scratched his head: