She had never been a mother to him, had never cared a pin's head about him! All this about a mother had only been something he had imagined.
He made a movement with his hands as if he were done with her. The one she cared about, and had a mother's feeling for, was this—
He did not know whether he had thought the name himself, or whether Jakobina had said it; but it rang in his ears like the stroke of a hammer on a shining anvil, as he rushed down:
"Ludvig Veyergang!"
He had robbed him of his mother from his earliest childhood. Was he going to drag Silla away from him too?
The thought at last became too impossible, and he slackened his pace.
That Jakobina was always so full of gossip and lies! This about Silla was all nonsense! There was nothing so dreadful in the three girls having taken a trip down to see a little of the fair; and they made that sharp-tongued Jakobina, whom they did not want to have with them, think they were all three going to the ball.
He, he, he! it was Silla who had thought of that! He would tell her he had seen that at once as soon as she told him.
He shook his head; for a moment he felt immensely re-assured, and relapsed into the bitter thoughts about his mother.
But—it would not be so out of the way if he went and looked for them; they might have taken it into their heads to stand outside and listen to the music.