Kitabı oku: «The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851», sayfa 20
Their marriage proved a happy one. Fanny was as amiable as she had appeared, and in the conduct of the commoner affairs of life, good-feeling with her supplied in a great measure any deficiency of strong sense. Philip did perhaps occasionally heave a gentle sigh, and think for a moment of Emily Sherwood, when he found how incapable his wife was of responding to a lofty or poetic thought, or of appreciating the points of an argument, unless it were upon some such subject as the merits of a new dress or the seasoning of a pudding. But he quickly checked the rising discontent, for Fanny was so pure in heart, and so unselfish in disposition, that it was impossible not to respect as well as to love her. In short, Philip Hayforth was a fortunate man, and what is more surprising, knew himself to be so. And when, after twenty years of married life, he saw his faithful, gentle Fanny laid in her grave, he felt bereaved indeed. It seemed to him then, as perhaps, at such a time, it always does to a tender heart, that he had never done her justice, never loved her as her surpassing goodness deserved. And yet a kinder husband never lived than he had been; and Fanny had died blessing him, and thanking him, as she said, "for twenty years of happiness." "How infinitely superior," he now daily and hourly thought, "was her sweet temper and loving disposition to all the intellect and all the poetry that ever were enshrined in the most beautiful form." And yet Philip Hayforth certainly was not sorry that his eldest daughter—his pretty, lively Fanny—should have turned out not only amiable and affectionate, but clever and witty. He was, in truth, very proud of Fanny. He loved all his children most dearly; but Fanny was the apple of his eye—the very delight of his existence. He had now almost forgotten Emily Sherwood; but when he did think of her, it was with indifference rather than forgiveness. He had not heard of her since his marriage, having, some time previous to that event, completely broken off the slight acquaintance he had formed with her relations; while a short absence abroad, at the time of her union with Mr. Beauchamp, had prevented him from seeing its announcement in the papers.
Meanwhile poor Emily's married life had not been so happy as that of her former lover. Mr. Beauchamp was of a pompous, tyrannical disposition, and had a small, mean mind. He was constantly worrying about trifles, perpetually taking offence with nothing, and would spend whole days in discussing some trivial point of etiquette, in the breach of which, he conceived himself aggrieved. A very miserable woman was his wife amid all the cold magnificence of her stately home. Often, very often, in her hours of loneliness and depression, her thoughts would revert to the brief, bright days of her early love, and her spirit would be rapt away by the recollection of that scene on the balcony, when Philip Hayforth and she had stood with locked hands and full hearts gazing at the sinking star and the sweetly breaking day, and loving, feeling, thinking, as if they had but one mind between them, till the present seemed all a fevered dream, and the past alone reality. She could not have been deceived then: then, at least, he had loved her. Oh, had she not wronged him? had there not been a mistake—some incident unexplained? He had warned her that his temper was proud and jealous, and she felt now that she ought to have written and asked an explanation. She had thrown away her happiness, and deserved her fate. Then she recollected that such thoughts in her, the wife of Mr. Beauchamp, were worse than foolish—they were sinful; and the upbraidings of her conscience added to her misery.
But Emily had a strong mind, and a lofty sense of right; and in those solitary struggles was first developed the depth and strength of her character. Partly to divert her thoughts from subjects dangerous to her peace, and partly from the natural bent of her inclinations, she sought assiduously to cultivate the powers of her mind, while her affections found ample scope for their exercise in the love of her infant son, and in considerate care for her many dependants, by all of whom she was loved and reverenced in no common degree. She learned thus the grand lessons—'to suffer and be strong,' and to make the best of destiny; and she felt that if she were a sadder woman, she was also a wiser one, and at any price wisdom, she knew, is a purchase not to be despised.
Mrs. Beauchamp had been married little more than five years when her husband died. His will showed, that however unhappy he had made her during his life, he had not been insensible to her merit, for he left her the sole guardian of their only son, and, while she should remain unmarried, the mistress of Woodthorpe Hall. In the childish affection and opening mind of her little boy poor Emily at last found happiness—unspeakable happiness, although it was of course qualified by the anxiety inseparable from parental love. She doted upon him; but her love was of too wise and unselfish a nature to permit her to spoil him, while her maternal affection furnished her with another motive for the cultivation of her own mind and the improvement of her own character. She was fired with the noble ambition of being the mother of her child's mind, as well as of that mind's mere perishable shrine.
II
Twenty-five years have passed away, with all their changes—their many changes; and now,
'Gone are the heads of silvery hair,
And the young that were have a brow of care:'
And the babe of twenty-five years ago is now a man, ready to rush into the thickest and the hottest of the great battle of life.
It was Christmas time; the trees were bare on Woodthorpe Chase; the lawns were whitened by a recent shower of snow, and crisped by a sharp frost; the stars were coming out in the cold cloudless sky; and two enormous fires, high piled with Christmas logs, blazed, crackled, and roared in the huge oaken chimneys of the great oak hall. Mrs. Beauchamp and her son sat together in the drawing-room, in momentary expectation of the arrival of their Christmas guests—a party of cousins, who lived at about ten miles' distance from Woodthorpe Hall. Edmund Beauchamp was now a very promising young man, having hitherto fulfilled the hopes and answered the cares of his fond and anxious mother. He had already reaped laurels at school and college, and his enlightened and liberal views, and generous, enthusiastic mind, gave earnest of a career alike honourable and useful. In person and features, though both were agreeable, he did not much resemble his mother; but he had the same large, soft, thoughtful eyes, the same outward tranquillity of demeanour hiding the same earnest spirit. At present he was silent, and seemed meditative. Mrs. Beauchamp gazed at him long and fondly, and as she gazed, her mother's heart swelled with love and pride, and her eyes glistened with heartfelt joy. At last she remarked, "I hope the Sharpes's new governess is as nice a person as the old one."
"Oh, much nicer!" cried Edmund suddenly, and as if awakening from a reverie.
"Indeed! I used to think Miss Smith a very nice person."
"Oh, so she was—very good-natured and obliging; but Miss Dalton is altogether a different sort of person."
"I wonder you never told me you found her so agreeable."
"I—Oh, I did not–That is, you never asked me."
"Is she young?"
"Yes—not much above twenty I should think."
"Is she pretty?"
"I—I don't exactly know," he said, hesitating and colouring; "I suppose—most persons–I should think she is." "How foolish I am!" thought Edmund. "What will my mother think of all this?" He then continued in a more composed manner—"She is a very excellent girl at least. She is the daughter of a London merchant—a remarkably honourable man—who has been ruined by these bad times; and though brought up in luxury, and with the expectation of large fortune, she has conformed to her circumstances in the most cheerful manner, and supports, it seems, with the fruits of her talents and industry, two little sisters at school. The Sharpes are all so fond of her, and she is the greatest favorite imaginable with the children." Edmund spoke with unwonted warmth. His mother looked at him half-sympathisingly, half-anxiously. She seemed about to speak, when the sound of carriage wheels, and the loud knock of a footman at the hall-door, announced the arrival of the Sharpes, and Mrs. Beauchamp and her son hastened into the hall to welcome their guests. Mrs. Beauchamp's eye sought for the stranger, partly because she was a stranger, and partly from the interest in her her son's conversation had created. But Miss Dalton was the last to enter.
Edmund had not erred in saying she was a pretty girl. Even beneath the cumbrous load of cloaks and furs in which she was now enveloped, you could detect the exquisite proportions of her petite figure, and the sprightly grace of her carriage; while a pretty winter bonnet set off to advantage a face remarkable for the intelligence and vivacity of its expression. Her features, though not regular, were small, while the brilliancy of her colour, though her complexion was that of a brunette, lent a yet brighter glow to her sparkling dark eyes, and contrasted well with the glossy black ringlets which shaded her animated countenance. At this moment, however, her little head was carried somewhat haughtily, and there was a sort of something not unlike bashfulness or awkwardness in her manner which seemed hardly natural to it. The truth was, Miss Dalton had come very unwillingly to share in the festivities of Woodthorpe Hall. She was not acquainted with Mrs. Beauchamp, and report said she was a very dignified lady, which Fanny Dalton interpreted to mean a very proud one; and from her change of circumstances, rendered unduly sensitive, she dreaded in her hostess the haughty neglect or still haughtier condescension by which vulgar and shallow minds mark out their sense of another's social inferiority. And therefore it was that she held her head so high, and exhibited the constraint of manner to which I have alluded. But all her pride and shyness quickly melted before the benign presence and true heart-politeness of Mrs. Beauchamp. Dignified the latter certainly was; but her dignity was tempered with the utmost benevolence of expression, and the most winning sweetness of manner; and when she took the hand of her little stranger-guest between both of hers, and holding it kindly, said, "You are the only stranger here, Miss Dalton; but for my sake you must try to feel at home," an affection for Mrs. Beauchamp entered into the heart of the young girl, which has continued ever since steadily to increase. That she should conceive such an affection was not unnatural, for there was something in the appearance and manners of Mrs. Beauchamp, combined with her position in life, calculated to strike the imagination and touch the feelings of a warm-hearted and romantic girl such as Fanny Dalton, more especially one circumstanced as she was. Even her previous prejudice, with the reaction natural to a generous mind, was likely to heighten her subsequent admiration. But it is not so easy to account for the sudden interest the pretty governess created at first sight in the heart of her hostess. Many girls as pretty and as intelligent looking as Miss Dalton she had seen before, without their having inspired a spark of the tenderness she felt towards this unknown stranger. She could not comprehend it herself. She was not prone "to take fancies," as the phrase is; and yet, whatever might be the case, certain it was that there was a nameless something about this girl, which seemed to touch one of the deepest chords of her nature, and to cause her heart to yearn towards her with something like a mother's love. She felt that if Miss Dalton were all that she had heard, and that if she should really prove her son's choice, he should not be gainsaid by her.
The Christmas party at Woodthorpe Hall was generally a merry one; and this year it was even merrier than usual. Fanny Dalton was the life of the party; her disposition was naturally a lively one, and this hour of sunshine in her clouded day called forth all its vivacity. But Fanny was not only clever, lively, and amiable; her conduct and manners occasionally displayed traits of spirit—nay, of pride; the latter, however, of a generous rather than an egotistical description. Nothing was so certain to call it forth as any tale of meanness or oppression. One morning Miss Sharpe had been relating an anecdote of a gentleman in the neighborhood who had jilted (odious word!) an amiable and highly estimable young lady, to whom he had long been engaged, in order to marry a wealthy and titled widow. There were many aggravating circumstances attending the whole affair, which had contributed to excite still more against the offender the indignation of all right-thinking persons. The unfortunate young lady was reported to be dying of a broken heart.
Fanny, who had been all along listening to the narration with an eager and interested countenance, now exclaimed—"Dying of a broken heart! Poor thing! But if I were she, I would not break my heart—I would scorn him as something far beneath me, poor and unimportant as I am. No, I might break my heart for the loss of a true lover, but never for the loss of a false one!" As Fanny's eyes shone, and her lip curled with a lofty contempt, as her naturally clear, merry tones grew deeper and stronger with the indignation she expressed, a mist seemed suddenly to be cleared away from the eyes of Mrs. Beauchamp, and in that slight young girl she beheld the breathing image of one whom she had once intimately known and dearly loved—in those indignant accents she seemed to recognize the tones of a voice long since heard, but the echoes of which yet lingered in her heart. Why she had so loved Fanny Dalton was no mystery now—she saw in her but the gentler type of him whom she had once believed the master of her destiny—even of Philip Hayforth, long unheard of, but never forgotten. But what connection could there be between Philip Hayforth and Fanny Dalton? and whence this strange resemblance, which lay not so much in form or in feature, as in that nameless, intangible similarity of expression, gesture, manner, and voice, so frequently exhibited by members of the same family.
As soon as Mrs. Beauchamp could quit the table, she withdrew to her own room, where she remained for some time in deep meditation, the result of which was a determination to fathom the mystery, if mystery there was. It was just possible, too, that the attempt might assist her to find a key to the riddle of her own destiny.
Accordingly, on the afternoon of the same day, she took an opportunity of being alone with Miss Dalton and her son, to say to the former—"I think you told me, my dear, that your father was alive?"
"Oh yes, thank God, he is alive! How I wish you knew him, Mrs. Beauchamp! I think you would like him, and I am sure he would like and admire you."
"Does your father at all resemble you in appearance?"
"I am not sure. I have been told that I was like him, and I always consider it a great compliment; for papa is still a very handsome man, and was of course even handsomer when he was young, and before his hair became grey. I have a miniature likeness of him, taken before his marriage, which I have with me, and will show you, if you will so far indulge my vanity."
Mrs. Beauchamp having replied that she should like exceedingly to see it, Fanny tripped away, and returned in a few minutes, carrying in her hand a handsome, but old-fashioned, morocco case. Mrs. Beauchamp had never seen it before, but she well remembered having given directions for the making of a case of that very size, shape, and color, for a miniature which was to have been painted for her. Her heart began to beat. She seemed upon the brink of a discovery. Fanny now opened the case, and placing it before Mrs. Beauchamp, exclaimed, "Now, isn't he a handsome man?" But Mrs. Beauchamp could not answer. One glance had been sufficient. A cold mist gathered before her eyes, and she was obliged to lean for support, upon the back of a chair.
"Dear Mrs. Beauchamp, are you ill?"
"My dear mother!" cried Edmund.
"It is nothing," she answered, quickly recovering herself; "only a little faintness." And then with the self-command which long habit had made easy, she sat down and continued with her usual calm sweetness—"I could almost fancy I had seen your father; but I do not remember ever knowing any one of the name of Dalton but yourself."
"Oh, but perhaps you might have seen him before he changed his name; and yet it seems hardly likely. His name used to be Hayforth; but by the will of his former partner, who, dying without near relations, left papa all his money, he took the name of Dalton. The money is all gone now, to be sure," she continued with the faintest possible sigh; "but we all loved the dear old man, and so we still keep his name."
Fanny had seated herself beside Mrs. Beauchamp, and as she finished speaking, the latter, obeying the impulse of her heart, drew her towards her and kissed her. Fanny, whose feelings were not only easily touched, and very strong, but even unusually demonstrative, threw her arms round Mrs. Beauchamp, and cried, with tears in her eyes, "How kind you are to me, Mrs. Beauchamp! You could hardly be kinder, if you were my mother."
"Dear Fanny," she answered in a low and affectionate tone, "I wish, indeed, I were your mother!"
As she spoke, Edmund, who had been standing in a window apart, made a sudden movement towards the two ladies, but as suddenly checked himself. At this moment his eyes encountered those of his mother, and colouring violently, he abruptly quitted the room. This little scene passed quite unnoticed by Fanny, who at the instant was thinking only of Mrs. Beauchamp, and of her own gentle mother, now beneath the sod.
The daughter of Philip Hayforth became a frequent guest at Woodthorpe Hall, spending most of her Sundays with Mrs. Beauchamp, who would frequently drive over to the Sharpes's for her of a Saturday afternoon, and send her back on the Monday morning. She was invited to spend the Easter holidays at the Hall—a most welcome invitation, as she was not to return home till the midsummer vacation. A most agreeable time were these Easter holidays! Never had Fanny seemed more bright and joyous. Her presence operated as perpetual sunshine on the more pensive natures of the mother and son. It was therefore a great surprise to Mrs. Beauchamp when, one day at luncheon, about a week before the time fixed for the termination of her visit, Fanny announced her intention of leaving Woodthorpe that afternoon, if her friend could spare her the carriage.
"I can certainly spare it, Fanny; but I should like to know the reason of this sudden determination?"
"You must excuse my telling you, Mrs. Beauchamp; but I hope you will believe me when I say that it is from a sense of duty." As she spoke, she raised her head with a proud look, her eyes flashed, and she spoke in the haughty tone which always brought before Mrs. Beauchamp the image of her early lover; for it was in her proud moments that Fanny most resembled her father.
"Far be it from me, Fanny," she replied, with her wonted sweetness and benignity, "to ask any one to tamper with duty; but, my child, our faults, our pride frequently mislead us. You shall go to-night, if you please; but I wish, for my sake, you could stay at least till to-morrow morning. I have not offended you, Fanny?"
"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beauchamp!" and the poor girl burst into tears. "I wish—I wish I could only show you how I love you—how grateful I am for all your goodness; but you will never, never know."
Mrs. Beauchamp looked anxiously at her, and began, "Fanny"–But suddenly stopped, as if she knew not how to proceed. Immediately afterwards the young girl left the room, silently and passionately kissing Mrs. Beauchamp's hand as she passed her on her way to the door.
A few hours later in the day, as Mrs. Beauchamp sat reading in her boudoir, according to her custom at that particular hour, Edmund abruptly entered the little room in a state of agitation quite foreign to his ordinary disposition and habits.
"Mother!" he cried.
"My love! what is the matter?"
"Mother! I love Fanny Dalton—I love her with all my soul. I think her not only the loveliest and most charming of women, but the best and truest! I feel that she might make my life not only happier, but better. Oh, mother! is not love as real a thing as either wealth or station? Is it not as sufficient for all noble works? Is it not in some shape the only motive for all real improvement? It seems to me that such is the lesson I have been learning from you all my life long."
"And in that you have learned it I am deeply grateful, and far more than repaid for all my care and anxiety on your account; and now thank you for your confidence, my dear Edmund, though I think you might have bestowed it after a calmer fashion. It would have been better, I think, to have said all those violent things to Fanny than to me."
"I have said more than all these to Fanny, and—she has rejected me!"
"Rejected you! my dearest Edmund! I am grieved indeed; but I do not see how I can help you."
"And yet I should not be quite hopeless if you would plead my cause. Miss Dalton says that you have loaded her with kindness which she can never repay; that she values your affection beyond all expression; and that she is determined not to prove herself unworthy of it by being the means of disappointing the expectations you may have formed for your son, for whom, she says, she is no match either in wealth or station. She would not listen to me when I attempted to speak to her but this instant in the Laurel Walk, but actually ran away, positively commanding me not to follow; and yet, I do think, if she had decidedly disliked me, she would have given me to understand so at once, without mentioning you. Mother! what do you—what do you think?"
"You shall hear presently, Edmund; but in the first place let us find Miss Dalton."
They went out together, and had not sought her long, when they discovered her pacing perturbedly up and down a broad walk of closely-shaven grass, inclosed on both sides by a tall impenetrable fence of evergreens. As soon as she saw them, she advanced quickly to meet them, her face covered with blushes, but her bearing open and proud. Ere Mrs. Beauchamp had time to speak, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Beauchamp, I do not deserve your reproaches. Never till this morning was I aware of Mr. Beauchamp's sentiments towards me. Dear, kind friend, I would have suffered any tortures rather than that this should have happened."
Fanny was violently agitated; while Mrs. Beauchamp, on the contrary, preserved a calm exterior. She took one of the young girl's hands between both of hers, and answered soothingly, "Compose yourself, my dear Fanny, I entreat you. Believe me, I do not blame you for the affection my son has conceived for you."
"Oh thank you! Indeed you only do me justice."
"But, Fanny, I blame you very much for another reason."
"For what reason, then, madam?"
"For the same reason which now causes your eye to flash, and makes you call your friend by a ceremonious title. I blame you for your pride, which has made you think of me harshly and unjustly. Unkind Fanny! What reason have I ever given you to think me heartless or worldly? Do you not know that those who love are equals? and that if it be a more blessed thing to give, yet to a generous heart, for that very reason, it ought to be a pleasure to receive? Are you too proud, Fanny, to take any thing from us, or is it because my son's affection is displeasing to you that you have rejected him?"
Fanny was now in tears, and even sobbing aloud. "Oh, forgive me," she cried, "forgive me! I acknowledge my fault. I see that what I believed to be a sense of duty was at least partly pride. Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, you would forgive me if you only knew how miserable I was making myself too!"
"Were you—were you indeed making yourself miserable?" cried Edmund. "Oh say so again, dearest Fanny; and say you are happy now!"
Mrs. Beauchamp smiled fondly as she answered, "I will do more than forgive you, my poor Fanny, if you will only love my son. Will you make us both so happy?"
Fanny only replied by a rapid glance at Edmund, and by throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. Beauchamp, which were extended to receive her. And as she was pressed to that fond, maternal heart, she whispered audibly, "My mother!—our mother!"
Mrs. Beauchamp then taking her hand, and placing it in that of her son, said with evident emotion, "Only make Edmund happy, Fanny, and all the gratitude between us will be due on my side; and oh, my children, as you value your future peace, believe in each other through light and darkness. And may Heaven bless you both!" She had turned towards the house, when she looked back to ask, "Shall I countermand the carriage, Fanny?" And Edmund added, half-tenderly, half-slyly, "Shall you go to-morrow?"
Fanny's tears were scarcely dry, and her blushes were deeper than ever, but she answered immediately, with her usual lively promptitude, "That depends upon the sort of entertainment you may provide as an inducement to prolong my visit."
And Edmund, finding that he had no chance with Fanny where repartee or badinage was in question, had recourse again to the serious vein, and rejoined, "If my power to induce you to prolong your visit were at all equal to my will, you would remain for ever, my own dearest Fanny."
We must now pass over a few months. The early freshness and verdure of spring had passed away, and the bloom and the glory of summer had departed. The apple-trees were now laden with their rosy treasures, the peach was ripe on the sunny wall, and the summer darkness of the woods had but just begun to be varied by the appearance of a few yellow leaves. It was on a September afternoon, when the soft light of the autumn sunset was bathing in its pale golden rays the grey turrets of Woodthorpe Hall, and resting like a parting smile on the summits of the ancestral oaks and elms, while it cast deep shadows, crossed with bright gleams, on the spreading lawns, or glanced back from the antlers of the deer, as they ever and anon appeared in the hollows of the park or between the trees, that a travelling carriage passed under the old Gothic archway which formed the entrance to Woodthorpe Park, and drove rapidly towards the Hall. It contained Edmund and Fanny, the newly-married pair, who had just returned from a wedding trip to Paris. They were not, however, the only occupants of the carriage. With them was Mr. Dalton, whom we knew in former days as Philip Hayforth, and who had been specially invited by Mrs. Beauchamp to accompany the bride and bridegroom on their return to Woodthorpe Hall.
And now the carriage stops beneath the porch, and in the arched doorway stands a noble and graceful figure—the lady of the mansion. The slanting sunbeams, streaming through the stained windows at the upper end of the oak hall, played upon her dress of dark and shining silk, which was partly covered by a shawl or mantle of black lace, while her sweet pale face was lighted up with affection, and her eyes were full of a grave gladness. Her fair hair, just beginning to be streaked with silver, was parted over her serene forehead, and above it rested a simple matronly cap of finest lace. Emily Beauchamp was still a beautiful woman—beautiful even as when in the early prime of youth and love she had stood in the light of the new-born day, clad in her robes of vestal whiteness. The change in her was but the change from morning to evening—from spring to autumn; and to some hearts the waning light and the fading leaves have a charm which sunshine and spring-time cannot boast. Having fondly but hastily embraced her son and daughter, she turned to Mr. Dalton, and with cordial warmth bade him welcome to Woodthorpe Hall. He started at the sound of the gentle, earnest tones which, as if by magic, brought palpably before him scenes and images which lay far remote, down the dim vista of years, obscured, almost hidden, by later interest and more pressing cares. He looked in Mrs. Beauchamp's face, and a new wonder met him in the glance of her large brown eyes, so full of seriousness and benignity, while the smooth white hand which yet held his in its calm friendly clasp seemed strangely like one he had often pressed, but which had always trembled as he held it. What could all this mean? Was he dreaming? He was aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen by the same voice which had at first arrested his attention.
"We must try to become acquainted as quickly as possible, Mr. Dalton," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "and learn to be friends for our children's sake."
Bowing low, he replied, "I have already learned from my daughter to know and to esteem Mrs. Beauchamp."
The more Mr. Dalton saw of Mrs. Beauchamp, the more bewildered he became. He fancied what appeared to him the strangest impossibilities, and yet he found it impossible to believe that there was no ground for his vague conjectures. His life had been one of incessant toil, lately one of heavy distress and anxious cares, which had frequently sent him to a sleepless pillow; but never had he spent a more wakeful night than this, his first under the stately roof which his daughter—his darling Fanny—called that of her home. He felt that he could not endure another day of this uncertainty. He must be satisfied at all hazards, and he resolved to make an opportunity, should such not spontaneously present itself. But he was spared the necessity; for after breakfast the following morning his hostess offered to show him the grounds—an offer which, with his desired end in view, he eagerly accepted. They commenced their walk in silence, and seemed as if both were suddenly under the influence of some secret spell. At last, in a hoarse voice and a constrained manner, Mr. Dalton abruptly inquired, "Pray, madam, may I ask—though I fear the question may seem an unceremonious, perhaps a strange one—if you have any relations of the name of Sherwood?"
