# Pratt Portraits/Chapter 4

BEN'S wife was a Hazeldean—a fact which that estimable woman rarely lost sight of. It was, perhaps, not to be expected that her husband and her husband's family should give quite due weight to the circumstance, but they were not allowed to forgetit. At first, to be sure, the Pratts, who were themselves unpretentious sort of people, were not without some pride in the connection; and even Old Lady Pratt herself did not object to letting fall the remark that "Ben's wife was a Hazeldean." An advantage like this, however, is one that should be sparingly used by its possessor; and it must be confessed that Mrs. Ben was inclined to push it more than was quite well-judged, and that, as time went on, the Pratts allowed a suspicion of satire to creep into the statement which had been made at first in perfect good faith.
Yet there was much to be said in defence of Mrs. Ben. Perhaps no one who has not had the experience can justly estimate the sacrifice which the woman makes who relinquishes a name of ​three syllables, and one of such romantic and poetic associations as Hazeldean (if, indeed, there be such another) for a curt, unembellished monosyllable like Pratt.
Moreover, this foible, together with certain trifling vanities and affectations engendered by it, was almost the only flaw in an honest and kindly, if somewhat high-strung nature. "Ben's wife" was worthy of that title and proud of it too. She knew in her heart that she would rather have been Ben's wife than a duchess. Yet being securely Ben's wife for all time, and, as she devoutly believed, for all eternity, she still enjoyed the retrospective glory of having been a Hazeldean.
Her first son was unquestioningly named Benjamin; but great was her rejoicing when the third child turned out to be a boy, and she could call him Hazeldean—Hazeldean Pratt! She felt as though she had never appreciated her own name until this happy combination proved what a lustre it could throw upon a single commonplace syllable. The boy was called Hazeldean from his cradle, and no corruption of the name was ever tolerated in the family. The two elder children, when they first ventured to call their little brother "Hazie, for short," were promptly suppressed, and by the time the younger ones came to speech, the three syllables were so firmly established in their rights that they seemed one and indivisible.
​Ben's wife was fond of dress, but Heaven forbid that that be accounted a flaw! She was a woman of excellent taste, thanks to which her house and her person were always as pleasant to look upon as the fashions of the day would permit. When the large hoops came into vogue, she was forced into them, as it were, for she would have been unpleasantly conspicuous without them. Yet she was never betrayed into extremes, and would have nothing to do with the "floating bell," when that climax of crinoline exaggeration appeared upon the scene.
In her house she was more independent still. It was a square house, modest, yet roomy, with the inevitable cupola on top. The house was painted gray with darker gray blinds, to suit the taste of the mistress, who disapproved the prevailing white and green of the suburb where she lived. When she refurnished her parlor, some fifteen years after her marriage, she boldly rejected the brilliant crimsons and liberal gildings of the period in favor of quiet colors. She chose a carpet of olive-brown Brussels with a dull red palm-leaf pattern, and window hangings of olive brown rep and plush, the effect being lightened by inner curtains of the finest and whitest muslin. Her furniture and her wall-paper were in soft neutral tints such as would to-day be called æsthetic, though they were little appreciated at that time, even by Ben himself. Indeed, if the truth were known, Ben, when he gave his wife ​carte blanche for refurnishing, had been dazzled by the most resplendent visions of red velvet sofas and a red velvet carpet bestrewn with baskets of pink and white roses, similar to, but even surpassing in brilliancy, the possessions of his wealthy brother-in-law James Spencer. His cheerful resignation when this glittering bubble of his fancy was pricked by the delicate point of his wife's finer perception, only showed what a thoroughly good Christian Ben was, and the amiability with which he submitted to the olive browns was eventually not without its reward. For many years after, the wheel of fashion having taken another turn, he had the satisfaction of seeing his neighbors revolutionize their houses at great expense, for the sake of bringing about the very condition of subdued harmony which had so long reigned under his own roof. Then it was that Mrs. Ben, who had meanwhile become an old woman, reaped a belated harvest of praise, and rejoiced in the consciousness of having proved herself to have been thirty years in advance of her time.
But this is a digression.
At the date in question, though the olive browns had not yet found their justification, Mrs. Ben, or Martha, as she was more familiarly called, had won a reputation as a very safe authority in matters of taste.
She was now the mother of five children, ranging in age from eighteen-year-old Ben down to ​little Eddie, a small mischief of five. She lavished upon them an adoring affection, yet she was not an over-indulgent mother, for she had very well-defined theories in regard to education. Her husband, secure in the conviction that his children would get all the training they needed without his doing violence to his own inclinations in the cause of discipline, was not afraid to spoil them to his heart's content; and there was no denying that he, with his good-humored smile and sly jokes, had, all unconsciously, stolen many a march upon his wife in their young affections.
Ben had a great respect for his wife's theories, though he himself did not possess the sign of one. She, on her part, could forgive him the lack, since her own pet theories found an embodiment in his person. He washer ideal of what a man should be—an exemplification of all the broad virtues which she considered essential in a manly character. He had courage, integrity, good judgment, and equanimity. Moreover, his very failings were such as to endear him still more to his wife. In the first place he was forgetful, a shortcoming which tallied very satisfactorily with her theory that a man should be too much preoccupied with great affairs to have a memory for small ones. Another source of gratification to her was his negligence in regard to his clothes and other belongings; she having always entertained a lively contempt for a "finical" man. Best of all, he was open-handed to a fault, an admired weak​ness which she joyfully corrected by the practice of small and persistent economies, such as she would have censured in him.
Martha's excitability of temperament, due, not to nerves, but to an uncommonly active imagination, was a constant source of wonder to Ben, though as years went by he had learned to treat it lightly.
"Ben," she would exclaim at supper of a Saturday evening, while her eyes grew big with apprehension, and suppressed anxiety vibrated in her voice—"O Ben! Did you remember to order any dinner for to-morrow?" It was plain that the vision of a starving family had suddenly terrified her imagination.
Ben would take a spoonful of quince preserve with the slow relish of an epicure, then look across the table at his anxious helpmeet, with a deepening of the crow's feet which a life of quiet humor had prematurely graven at the corners of his blue eyes, and say, in a tone of inimitable self-complacency: "Yes, Martha, I got a little salt fish and a cent's worth of asparagus."
Then the children would become hilarious over their father's wit, Martha would draw a long sigh of relief, untroubled by his jesting, and, behold, the crisis was passed.
Ben's wife was a great reader of books, especially of history; and the histories of that day being chiefly a succession of royal biographies, her imagination was peopled with kings and queens. ​She had always cherished a secret desire to behold a crowned head—a desire of which she was a little ashamed, in her republican heart, yet which rose to fever heat when the papers announced the coming visit of the young Prince of Wales to this country. His head, to be sure, had not yet been crowned, but was he not the next heir to the great throne of England, and was he not a youth in whom past and future united to produce an historic and romantic personage of the first water? And she, Martha Hazeldean (for so she still called herself in her moments of exaltation), she was to behold with her own eyes this royal boy. She eagerly read all the newspaper items which heralded and accompanied his visit to Canada, whilst Harper's Weekly, to which she was a subscriber, acquired a new and dramatic interest when portraits of the young prince began to appear among the illustrations of that admirable paper.
Ben was, of course, well aware of his wife's state of mind. If he had tried to do so, he could not have shared her feeling, and it never occurred to him to try. Ben was not sufficiently subtle to make any endeavors to cultivate sentiments which did not spring up of their own accord. He was republican to the core, and he could not see that Queen Victoria's son was necessarily more interesting than his own boys. That a great country, which had emancipated itself at the cost of blood and treasure from all the "folderol" of ​royalty, should be so ready to make a toy of it at the first opportunity, struck him as being quite as absurd as though his eighteen-year-old Ben were deliberately to go back to nursery rhymes and tin soldiers.
But though Ben did not share his wife's feelings he was as ready to gratify them as though they had been his own.
One pleasant afternoon in October, Mrs. Ben, adorned with a black silk apron and wearing a deep Shaker sun-bonnet, was out in the garden gathering a basketful of late nasturtiums, with which to put a touch of autumn sunshine into her olive-brown parlor. She had the faculty of disposing a bit of color just in the place where it was needed, and Ben had begun to perceive that these judicious touches gave their rooms a gayer, cheerier air, than all the downright crimson and gold seemed able to impart to the highly colored apartments which had once been his envy.
As she stooped to trace with careful fingers the windings of one of the-delicate, brittle stems, she heard a step upon the gravel walk, and glancing up, beheld her husband coming toward her. His appearance soearly in the day would have alarmed her had she not perceived a twinkle of roguish mystery in his eyes, which he was vainly trying to repress.
"Why, Ben!" she exclaimed, rising hastily to her feet and hurrying toward him. "What has brought you home so early?"
​"Is it early?" he asked, innocently, making as though he would attack the citadel of the Shaker bonnet.
"Oh! oh! You'll muss my hair!" she cried, retreating.
"All done up for the afternoon?"
"Of course it is," was the reproachful answer. "But, Ben, what has brought you home so early?"
"Old Pacer," he replied, this time with a still more quizzical look.
Ben was not the man to be hurried into an agreeable disclosure. He loved too well the pleasures of anticipation.
"Has anything happened?" she asked, with growing impatience.
"Yes. I've got home."
Ben was sometimes very trying.
"Come, Martha," he called, as she started, in simulated dudgeon, to walk away to her nasturtium beds, "let's go and get some grapes."
"Good—ain't they?" he observed, as they sat in the long arbor, eating the delicious Catawbas that grew in beautiful clusters just within their reach.
A pleasant silence fell upon them, broken only by the clucking of hens in a neighbor's yard, while the mellow October sunshine filtered through the thinning vines and checkered the backs of the two figures sitting amicably together. Martha had taken off her Shaker bonnet, and the sunshine slanted across the glossy black hair, which was brushed smoothly down over the ears, ​and passed in flat braids across the back of the head. She was not as much absorbed in epicurean delight as her husband seemed to be, but since he was in a teasing mood it was not worth while to talk to him.
Presently he spoke in an absent tone which seemed a trifle studied, while he held up a fresh bunch of grapes to his own admiring gaze.
"I don't s'pose, Martha, that you'd care anything about going to the Prince's ball?"
"The Prince's ball," cried Martha, with a flush of excitement. Then, recovering herself: "Nonsense, Ben! What a tease you are!"
"Oh, then you wouldn't care to go? Well, I told Edward I didn't think you'd take any interest in it, and I felt pretty sure you wouldn't want the trouble of having a ball-dress made. I know I shouldn't."
"O Ben! Is there really going to be a ball for the Prince, and is Edward going?'"
"Yes, Edward's going, and he thought may be, as Lucia was in mourning, you might like to take her place and go with him. But I didn't s'pose you'd care much about it."
Martha's face glowed, and Ben's countenance was simply brimming with satisfaction as he watched the dawning upon her of this great, this stupendous idea.
"O Ben! you know I should like to go! Of course you said yes; nowdidn't you? Ah, don't tease! Come, tell me all about it."
​Then Ben, having sipped his cup of pleasure long enough, proceeded to drink it down in generous draughts; for he loved, of all things, to make Martha's eyes shine.
For the next ten days Mrs. Ben was in a whirl of excitement. In the first place, there was the gown to be bought and made. She decided upon a "moiré antique," a silk then in the height of fashion, and which she considered economical, because of its great durability. She was divided in her mind between several neutral tints. One was called "ashes of roses"; another rejoiced in the euphonious name of "monkey's breath." When she finally fixed her choice upon a rich "mauve," Ben could not be persuaded to call it anything but "ashes of monkeys." But to Martha, nothing which concerned the ball seemed a fit subject for mirth. It was really a solemn occasion to her, this entering into the immediate, the actual presence of royalty. The only difficulty was that it engrossed her thoughts too much. She felt it; she regretted it; yet do what she would, she could not keep her thoughts fixed upon any other subject.
She had not dared entrust the making of so grand a gown to little Miss Plimpton, who went out by the day, and had hitherto contented the ambition of the family, and she had thus fallen a victim to a fashionable dressmaker, who had the reputation of disappointing her customers. Hence, in the days that were to elapse before her gown ​should come home, poor Martha did not have a moment's peace of mind. Questions also arose of the very highest importance in regard to the fashion of the dress, which she alone could decide. Should the skirt be looped in five festoons, or six? Should the trimming be of black lace, or white? Was llama lace sufficiently rich for a Prince's ball, or did etiquette demand "real thread"? On the one hand, llama lace was much cheaper, but then it was quite inferior. And is not the best the cheapest, when judged by true standards? Thread lace, for instance, could be handed down from generation to generation, and would always be valuable. It was almost like real-estate, or diamonds. If she only had diamonds to wear, by the way! But alas! though she was a Hazeldean, her share of the family jewels consisted in a pair of topaz ear-rings and a set of turquoise; both of which were manifestly unsuited to a state occasion. Even the diamond ring which Ben had given her on their tenth anniversary would be concealed by her glove.
These, and like perplexities and speculations, were chasing each other like mad through her brain while she went about her household duties, and, sad to say, even when she sat in church. Strive as she might the next Sunday, she could not rid her mind of the idea that the number of festoons in her skirt was to be settled by the number of heads in Mr. Hawley's sermon. And ​when he wound up on "fifthly," so preoccupied was she in trying to picture to herself the "effect" of the five festoons thus decided upon, she scarcely heard the salutary admonition, "Fix not your hearts upon the things of this world."
None of the Pratt family had thought of such a thing as going to the ball, and indeed it was well that they had not. For boasting, as they did, but few connections in high life, they might not have gained admittance. Martha's brother Edward, on the other hand, had married the daughter of a "merchant prince," (a fitting alliance for a Hazeldean), and he lived in the city, where he was quite a personage. It was, therefore, most natural that he should come to the fore on occasions like the present.
The Pratts, however, though themselves too stanch in their republicanism to regret their own exclusion from the ball, were far from indifferent to Martha's coming elevation. They only half approved the expensive new dress, indeed, on the ground that she was not likely ever to have another chance to wear it, but they were none the less eager to see her in it, and there were few persons among their large acquaintance who had not been informed that "Ben's wife was going to the Prince's ball." Whence it is fair to conclude that they were not positively ashamed of the circumstance.
Old Lady Pratt alone held out against the popular current of curiosity and excitement. She ​had a vivid recollection of the War of 1812, and of the burning of public buildings at Washington, and to her the British were, and would always remain, "the enemy." As to "Martha's craze," she contented herself with one bit of sarcasm, which gave her much gratification and hurt nobody. She told Harriet, her eldest daughter and confidante, that she "s'posed Martha was countin' on gettin' a chance to tell the Prince that she was a Hazeldean."
For her own part, Old Lady Pratt was convinced that she would not have gone to the window to look out if the procession had passed through Green Street; a degree of patriotism on the old lady's part, which was, happily, not destined to be put to the test.
The ball was to take place on Thursday evening, and on Wednesday morning the Prince actually did arrive in Boston. The two boys, Ben and Hazeldean, who went to school in town, witnessed the august entry into the city, but the rest of the family succeeded in curbing their impatience until the grand procession which was announced for the next day. Mrs. Ben awaited the return of the boys with the keenest interest. She was somewhat disappointed in their report, in which the "Light Dragoons" and the crowd of spectators played a more conspicuous part than the Prince himself. To her urgent inquiries in regard to his Royal Highness, these unsusceptible young republicans had nothing more ​definite to say than that they "guessed he was well enough."
The grand gown had not yet arrived, but during supper a messenger, who had been sent to inquire about it, came back with the cheering assurance that it was coming in an hour. Thereupon the boys were despatched to tell Aunt Harriet and the girls that their mother would try on the dress as soon as it should arrive, and would be glad of their opinion. Little Eddie, who was somewhat hoarse, and was in wholesome fear of missing the procession next day, submitted to an early bed, but all the rest of the family sat awaiting, with bated breath, the arrival of the gown. It was a tedious evening, for the faithless dressmaker did not redeem her promise until nearly ten o'clock. In fact, Harriet and the girls were on the point of departing when the door-bell rang, sending a tidal wave of excitement over the stagnant waters of the company.
The gown was displayed with much ceremony, and all agreed that it was "both handsome and genteel." Harriet and the girls helped put it on, and so satisfying was the effect that the wished-for jewels were scarcely missed. Indeed, something of the translucent light and glow of gems seemed to emanate from the mother-of-pearl fan with which Edward had thoughtfully presented his sister, and which lent a peculiar air of distinction to the toilette.
Late as the hour was, they all lingered a long ​time, chattering and admiring and speculating as to the impending glories. The boys, being sleepy after the conflicting duties and excitements of the day in the city, were the first to disappear. Then the Pratt girls were sent to bed, and presently Ben escorted his sister and nieces home, leaving Martha in solitary possession of her own magnificence.
While the voices of her departing guests were still audible on the stairs, Martha, who could no longer restrain her impatience for a complete view of herself, mounted upon a chair before her toilet-glass. From this eminence she could see her voluminous skirts to great advantage, and even the open-worked stockings encased in bronze slippers were visible. The head, to be sure, was not included in the reflection—a fact which quite escaped her notice; for Martha's vanity was of a singularly impersonal kind, and she was as unconscious of any charms of countenance as she was of the graces of disposition which others prized in her. It was the gown, and that alone, which commanded her respect and admiration. She stood there so lost in contemplation of its beauties that she scarcely noticed that her guests still lingered in the passage-way, till she heard the heavy thud of the front door closing upon them.
A sudden hush ensued. She stood upon the chair, turning slowly round and round after the manner of the lay figures in the shop-windows, ​when suddenly she became aware of a strange, muffled sound. She paused, straining her ear to listen. What was it? Her heart stood still beneath the stiff breastplate of moiré antique. Could it be burglars? No; it was too early, and there were lights burning. Was it the wind? The wind never made a sound like that. And even while she tried to reason about it, the conviction seized her that it was a creature in distress. Only for a moment did she stand motionless, her eyes dilating with dread, the blood surging to her heart. Then, with a stifled cry, she sprang from the chair, flinging far from her the fan which she had held in her hand, and rushed to her dressing-room, through her dressing-room to little Eddie's chamber beyond; for—oh, terrible certainty!—it was from his room, from his bed, from his lips, that the blood-curdling sound came!
"My darling! my precious! what is it?" she cried, bending over him in mortal terror. "Speak my darling! speak, Eddie! Tell mother."
But the cruel gurgling and gasping were the only answer. With shaking hands she struck a light. There lay the poor little fellow battling for his life, his face purple, his eyes bright with distress.
She opened the entry door, and fairly flew to the boys' room. "Ben! Ben!" she cried, "run for the doctor! Eddie is dying of the croup! Run for your life! Hazeldean! go for Dr. Baxter; Dr. ​Walton may be out. Run, boys! Fetch some one—any one! Run!"
The boys were on their feet in an instant. In another moment she was at the child's bedstead, trying one ineffectual remedy after another. Her slender science was soon exhausted, all to no purpose. The struggle went on in a succession of alarming paroxysms. Then she sat upon the bed and held the suffocating child in her arms, trembling in a despairing knowledge that she could not help him, yet with the deep overwhelming urgency of a mother's love, which cannot credit its ownimpotency. She held him close, one of his little hands convulsively clasping hers, the small curly head pressed hard against her breast. Oh! the pathos of those baby curls, and that drawn, agonized baby face!
"In a minute, my precious," she kept saying, "in a minute the doctor'll come and make you well—just a minute, my poor darling. It'll be over soon."
Over? How? As she spoke the words a desolating fear swept all her faith away, and suddenly, as in a flash of light, those other words, unheeded and forgotten, struck upon her memory: "Fix not your hearts upon the things of this world."
She looked down with a quick pang of remorse upon the stiff moiré antique. Alas! she who would have enfolded her darling in the softest textures, must see him lie in his extremity against ​the cold, untender surface of this hateful gown! The poignancy of that thought was almost more than she could bear, and in the sudden rush of remorse and terror all her innocent vanity stood distorted into the guise of sin.
"My God! my God!" she prayed, as she had never prayed before, "I have been a wicked, worldly woman! Oh, my God! have pity!" No other words came, but all through those interminable minutes while she waited for help, "Have pity," she prayed,—"have pity!"
And suddenly, like an angel of deliverance, the doctor stood before her. He stooped and lifted the child from her arms, saying: "Don't be frightened, Martha, we'll save him yet." And she no more doubted his word than she would have doubted him had he indeed been an angel sent straight from heaven in answer to her prayer.
By two o'clock all was quiet and the child was sleeping peacefully.
"Come, Martha," Ben said, putting his hand on her shoulder as she sat by the bedside, still clad in the moiré antique. "Come, do go to bed, the doctor says there is nothing to fear, and I'll sit up with Eddie. You won't be fit for the ball to-morrow."
"The ball! the ball," she repeated. "Oh, Ben!"
But she went and changed the ball dress, shuddering as she listened to its stiff rattle, and then, in a soft wrapper, she lay down upon the bed be​side her boy. All night she listened to his easy, regular breathing, and all night long there was such a thanksgiving in her heart that she could not sleep.
The next day the child was quite himself again, trotting about the house, as active and as naughty as he had ever been in his life. Hetold his sisters he had had a "bad dream." It had, indeed, been a bad dream, a nightmare, which in his mother's eyes threw its ominous shadow upon all that had preceded and all that was to have followed it. No amount of reasoning could induce her to go to the ball, nor could she bring herself to look upon that terrible midnight hour as anything but a punishment and a warning.
"I can't help what you say, Ben," she protested with a fervor which he only half understood. "I've been a wicked, thoughtless woman. If I hadn't had my heart 'fixed upon the things of this world,' I shouldn't have been parading about in that moiré antique dress, talking so fast that I couldn't hear that precious child gasping for the breath of life. Think of it! only think of it! A little helpless child lying at death's door, while his mother's head was so full of princes and balls that she had forgotten she had a child to her name! No, Ben, I wouldn't goa single step. It would be tempting Providence. And besides," she added, giving what was, after all, the true reason, "I couldn't."
"And Edward?" urged Ben, whose argumen​tative powers were not great. "And Edward? And that handsome gown?"
"Edward will have to go without me. And the gown?" She paused an instant, while a familiar look came into the ardent face. "Why, the gown will make over nicely for one of the girls when they are grown up. You know, Ben, the colors I choose don't go out of fashion. The Hazeldeans all have good taste."
Ben was consoled and relieved. Martha might give up the ball—though he didn't see the sense of it,—but she had not changed her nature yet; she was still a Hazeldean.
That day all the family but the inconsolable Eddie and his mother went to town to Uncle Edward's office, to see the procession escort the Prince to the State-House. They came home with glowing accounts of the fine display. Even Ben, the heretic, had found it surprisingly interesting to be looking straight down out of his own republican eyes at the future King of England, and he owned as much.
"And to think, Martha, that you shouldn't see the Prince after all!" he said at supper.
"Hadn't you betterchange your mind, and go to the ball?" he added, coaxingly; for a moral impossibility is a difficult thing to make other people understand.
Martha was at that moment engaged in the motherly office of drying the fingers of her youngest, who had been surreptitiously dabbling them ​in his bowl of milk. She was thinking how she adored that little, chubby, mischievous paw, and "the things of this world," including the Prince and all his train, seemed to her very remote and indifferent.
"No, Ben," she said, "I don't care anything about the ball."
This was more conclusive than the ardor with which she had met his previous appeals, and Ben gave up the contest.
Perhaps the only person in the family who wholly sympathized with Mrs. Ben's feeling was her sharp little mother-in-law. When news was brought her of Martha's "foolish notion" of not going to the ball, just because Eddie had had the croup in the night—and not the real croup at that, her informant added,—Old Lady Pratt behaved in a very disappointing manner. In the first place, she took off her spectacles and rubbed them vigorously with her folded pocket-handkerchief before she spoke; a thing she did, only when a good deal moved; and then she said, with unusual warmth, "Martha's a good woman, I declare for 't, if she is a Hazeldean!"