“I’m sure I beg pardon,” Harriet replied, and feeling rather ashamed of her unintended disrespect, she dared not object further, and hurried off as Chrissie had ordered.
But with the young lady spreading out flowers and glasses and water-cans all over the floor, it was clearly impossible to go on sweeping. Furthermore, Chrissie made her shut the window, so all the poor girl could attend to, and that not without difficulty, was the fireplace.
Little cared Chrissie. She went on sorting and selecting, cleverly enough, it must be owned, and some of the glasses were looking pretty and graceful, when a sound made her glance at the door. There stood Jasper, Harriet by this time having fled in despair.
“What do you want?” said Chrissie sharply. She was already getting a little tired of her task, for she had been at it for three-quarters of an hour.
“Oh Chrissie, Lelly is so cross,” he said. “She heard me goin’ down and she called me. She’s nearly dressed and she’s comin’ immediately. And I’m afraid she’s very vexed. And the room is in such a mess,” and, child though he was, he gazed round in consternation.
It was quite true—the mess was appalling. For it was not in Chrissie’s nature to do anything with method, and Leila’s greater neatness would have been a help in the morning’s work. But even worse was to follow; for almost before Chrissie had taken in what Jasper was saying, Leila, for once, in her indignation, as hasty as her sister, dashed into the room, upsetting as she did so, one of the big cans of water brought by Harriet, and, sadder still, one of the already arranged vases, breaking it into pieces—the water streaming out to mingle with the pool already forming, the poor flowers pitched about in all directions.
Christabel flew at her, trying to push her out of the room.
“You horrid girl,” she said, “you clumsy creature.”
“It’s you that’s horrid,” returned Leila. “Worse than horrid. How could you be so mean and sneaky? Why didn’t you wake me? Mother meant us to do them together. It’s all your fault. I shall tell Mother—it isn’t mine a bit. Let go of me,” but Chrissie only pushed her the more fiercely.
And this was the sight, these were the sounds, that met poor Mrs Fortescue as, unheard by the furious children, she stood in the doorway,—room in chaos, the pretty carpet, chosen newly on purpose to brighten the look of things, soaking—dark with water—the bits of glass and poor flowers all strewed about, and, worst of all, two little girls, crimson with anger, struggling together and hurling out ugly words of reproach and rage.