  ALFONSO BOMBS’ PYROTECHNICS AND ADELAIDE SCHWARMER’S BLAME. Mr. Bombs had brought with him some of the most elaborate and artistic works known to the trade. He had in mind works of a much grander and more instructive nature—works that would be truly great and high and far reaching (so he said); works that would be fit for the greatest king on earth to look at; that would startle and vivify the entire world and make the family name illustrious. He had been collecting material for his works throughout his college course—historical events, especially the burning and storming of cities and such of the battles and conflicts as lent themselves readily to pyrotechnic delineation. He was busy experimenting with his material. He expected to have his first historical piece finished by this time next year, and he was happy to think he had secured so good a place for its representation. “I wonder if those idiots down below will disdain to watch our performance,” asked Bombs, as he was about to begin. “Undoubtedly not—that is after they’ve spanked the children and sent them to bed,” laughed Schwarmer. “That’s the extent of the moral wave with that sort of people. It generally stops with the youngsters. After they are disposed of they’ll sit on their door stones until the last flare, most assuredly they will. Shall we send a searchlight after them?” “No! no! Schwarmer. We can’t afford to waste time and timber, hunting up such light-quenchers. We can’t begin any lower down than ‘mosaics’ if we do full justice to ‘Tourbillions’—that is get in all the inventions and improvements which I have made the last year.” “Go on, then, Alfonso. Let’s have the improvements life-size and inventions too, all of them, though the heavens should fall and the nearest stars have to be knocked out, so to speak?” “O papa! papa!” exclaimed Adelaide in a tone Bombs winced but he went about his mosaics and was soon receiving flattering comments and profuse compliments from the guests. “Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Bombs,” said Miss Drawling. “Your mosaics are truly splendid, especially the designs of your own invention. They are quite beyond the artist’s dream. I saw a great many pieces of mocaic work when I visited the galleries of Greece and Rome. They were supposed to be very wonderful but commend yours to me.” “Thanks and thanks for such kindly appreciation,” replied Bombs, bending low and glancing aside at Adelaide. She had not retired, and was looking as though she were trying to be amused. “I never cared much for mosaics,” remarked Mrs. Shannon—“the real ones. They are so small and look so trifling and dull; but yours are bright and sizable and so charmingly changeable, Mr. Bombs.” Even while the shower of compliments was in process the many colored pieces gave a sudden toss up as though in disdain and came down in the form of letters—at least the letters were there dancing along on the dusky background and arranging themselves into words; and the words were “Welcome to Schwarmer Hill!” “Written in all the colors of the rainbow and without the tiresome pen and ink,” remarked Miss Drawling. It was a surprise even to the Schwarmers. They were highly delighted—at least Mr. and Mrs. Schwarmer. Miss Adelaide was inhaling the fragrance of a rose which she had brought in from the dewy garden. She said nothing; but the guests were enthusiastic in their praises—especially of the dexterity which had been displayed. “A warm welcome, indeed,” was the fiat of the college bred Miss Hannibal—“written in letters of fire; and such letters! So graceful and serpentine! and some of them quite new! Your own invention or modification without a doubt. Surely I have never seen anything in the shape of letters so perfectly unique!” After the fiery welcome there was a fountain. “Guests are supposed to be thirsty,” remarked Dr. Orison. “That was a happy thought of yours, Mr. Bombs.” “And you must have patterned it after the famous old Italian fountains,” added his wife—“the royal ones that were filled with wines of all kinds and colors and sparkle and spirit also. You are a genius, Mr. Bombs.” After that there were palm trees and Highland tartans, which were duly praised and commented upon. Then came the sun—the last of the fixed Young Bombs shied away from the flattering spectators and went over to the secluded corner where Adelaide was sitting. He had a full goblet of wine in one hand and a choice Havana cigar in the other. He did not go because he was especially or magnetically drawn or wanted her society, but because he wanted no society. It had been something of a strain on his nerves to see that everything went off right and was effectively and harmoniously arranged, and the end was not yet. He was in no mood to listen to extravagant praise, and he knew where he would not get it. Adelaide still had the rose in hand and was enjoying its beauty—bestowing loving looks and lips upon it as well and inhaling its fragrance. “Nothing but a rose,” said Bombs, after he had seated himself leisurely at her side and taken a sip of wine. “Nothing but a rose,” repeated Adelaide; “but a rose is a great deal, Mr. Bombs. It is beauty, fragrance and color—soft and restful color.” “O! I understand. I know you don’t like fireworks, nor much of anything as yet—that is in the line of human invention.” “I like human inventions but I don’t like inhuman Mr. Bombs looked at her fixedly while he continued to sip the wine. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were of the palest blue and her hair of the palest gold and wondered if there was anything in her physical makeup that made it naturally antagonistic to fiery display. “Did the doves hate fireworks and did the serpents like them?” was the question he asked himself. “Perhaps you will like my new piece better,” he remarked after he had finished the wine. “Tourbillions are a higher form of Pyro.” “When is your new piece going to be spoken?” laughed Adelaide. “At the end, of course. You hadn’t better retire—it might wake you up. It will be huge, Miss Adelaide.” “The bigger they are the more I don’t like them, Mr. Bombs. The little ones tire me and the big ones scare me. You know how I screamed when that horrid London Pyro-King sent off his biggest rockets. They looked so dangerous—as though a terrible comet or electric storm were crashing into the earth to destroy it. Is your new piece dangerous, Mr. Bombs?” “Not very, I hope, Miss Adelaide.” “You mean that it is a little dangerous, Mr. Bombs. Now I want to know if you don’t think “I think you are mightily like old Pythagoras, Miss Adelaide.” “Why so, Mr. Bombs?” “He was said to be an ‘assiduous questioner’, Miss Adelaide.” That ended it. He lighted his cigar and went out into the garden. Soon afterwards the Tourbillions began to ascend; and the heavens, at least that portion of them that belonged to Schwarmer Hill, was soon filled with jets and coils of flame and stars of many magnitudes and colors. The spectators appeared to be highly delighted—all except Adelaide. She was growing tired. Her eyes burned, her head ached and she was thinking of going to her room, when suddenly the sky cleared and she heard the voice of Bombs announcing the closing piece—“his new contribution to Pyrotechnic art.” He said among other things that he had invented the piece especially for this occasion; that it had as yet no name; that he had left it for the ladies to name—that is, if it proved to be a success, or materialized as he expected it would. Otherwise it might better be nameless; for if it were mentioned at all it would be called “The light that failed.” However he would say this much as to its composition and intention. It was intended to be a sort of cross between the girandole and the “As to its composition,” continued Bombs, “I think you will believe after you have seen it, that it was no slight thing to get up a piece of this kind—so many points had to be considered. As an example there was the one thing of garniture. The ladies will appreciate this very readily. If I mistake not, a lady would think a week spent in selecting the proper trimmings for her dress was a long time. What then would she say if I told her that I spent two months selecting the most effective garniture for my piece—two months to get it entirely out of the region of commonness—the region of gold and silver rain and of the ‘Peacock’s Tail!’” The ladies waved their fans and clapped their hands, during which commotion Mr. Bombs disappeared from view. While Adelaide was wondering where he had gone to so suddenly, a huge stream of serpentine fire issued from the Engine House. It grew larger and larger every moment. It lifted itself into The gentlemen applauded. Bombs had said in the beginning that the piece was a cross between a war rocket and a girandole and they supposed that the report and the ball of fire was the war part of it, but Adelaide knew that it was an accident and she thought of the gardener’s cottage with a thrill of fear. A moment afterwards a sheet of light and flame came streaming up from that direction, a woman’s voice cried “Fire! Fire!” and a woman’s form clad in white appeared on the fiery background. The spectators were startled for the moment; then they broke out in wild applause. Dr. Orison said “It is ever thus after war.” The woman was standing still with her arms twisted about her body, as though in mortal agony. They thought she was there advisedly to represent the realistic finishing of Mr. Bombs’ piece. But they were soon undeceived. Another cry rent the air. “It’s Mary, the gardener’s wife! Help! help! Her house must be on fire.” It was the cry of Adelaide Schwarmer as she ran to her assistance. “FIRE, FIRE!” CRIED A VOICE. “Where is it, where?” asked Adelaide. “Lost! Lost!” she cried, sinking down in a dead faint. Mrs. Schwarmer divined the situation and was soon at her side. She threw her magnificent shawl over the prostrate figure. Her husband was sent for. He was in the kitchen helping the servants. They came and carried her in. Dr. Orison offered his services and the rest of the men hastened to the fire; but a stream of water was pouring down on it from the Engine House and their aid was not needed. They returned and reported that “the fire was a trifling affair.” “But where is her baby!” asked Adelaide. “She said she had lost her baby. We must find it for her.” “Adelaide,” said her mother sternly, “go to your room at once. It is not proper for you to ask questions about such matters. Your father and Mr. Bombs will make whatever search the doctor thinks necessary.” Half an hour afterwards Dr. Orison returned to the guests and reported the woman to be out of danger. His silence with regard to the baby was understood to mean that it had never lived and that it was a matter of no earthly consequence. A matter of much greater interest to one and all of the gay people assembled there, appeared to On the contrary Adelaide could think of nothing but the gardener’s wife and her lost baby. She could not sleep. She was in an agony of suspense—to know how it had fared with them. She thought the guests would talk it over at the breakfast table; but she was mistaken. Not a word was said about it and all seemed as lively as though nothing at all had happened. She did not dare to ask them any questions on the subject after her mother’s rebuke, but she knew she could ask her father. She saw him out on the hill and ran after him. “Mary! poor Mary! how is she, father?” she gasped out. “O! she’s all right Addie, only a little scare. She’ll be all right again in a few days the doctor says.” “And the baby. Did you find the baby?” “Yes we found it, Addie, and took it to her. Bombs found it just over there by that clump of milkweeds—but it wasn’t much of a find—most assuredly it wasn’t. It was dead of course; and I guess it was a Providence for they’ve got two little tots now and they’re not very forehanded. If they kept on at that rate they’ll have a “O don’t say that! It’s dreadful. She loved her baby and she was in such agony when she lost it! O I never saw such agony! You must not turn them off—never, never. It would be wrong, I know it would after this awful fright! We ought to give them something to make up for it. I know we had, father! I know it! And I’m going to give her all I have got in my purse and I shall remember her as long as I live!” “Softly Addie! Softly! Don’t let any of the gentry over there hear you. They’d think you were crazy. We’ll fix it between ourselves—we won’t be hard on them if they do have a big swarm. We’ll see that they don’t starve. Most assuredly we will.” “They ought to have good big wages. They make the flowers grow so beautifully.” “Yes Addie the flowers are all right; but where’s the lawn, the green velvet lawn that your mamma raves about so much. The grass can’t grow with so many little feet trotting over it.” “But little feet are of more consequence than grass, you know they are, only you don’t stop to think. And little children are better than fireworks. I wish all the ugly old fireworks were at the bottom of the sea. You ought not to have let Mr. Bombs send off his piece over the gardener’s house.” “Was your piece more dangerous than you thought, Mr. Bombs?” “Well, rather, Miss Adelaide—that is I didn’t expect it was going to burst up—or down I should say.” “But you knew it was dangerous enough to set things on fire if it did burst and strike them, Mr. Bombs.” “Yes, Miss, I knew enough for that.” “Then you are to blame for sending it off where you did, Mr. Bombs, and father is to blame for letting you do it. I have just told him so.” “There was no other place—that is handy—where the ladies could see it and be comfortably seated, Miss Adelaide.” “Then there ought to have been a place made, Mr. Bombs, and if there couldn’t have been, then you ought not to have sent it off at all. You know you had not, and I shall always blame you for it. It was very, very wrong.” “I see!” laughed Bombs. “You are on your blaming expedition this morning, Miss Adelaide. You are right about having a place made, though. There ought to be for large works; and when I |
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