“But suppose it hadn’t.”
“But it had, and she knew it had, because of her piety and faith,” insisted Marie.
“I shouldn’t have liked to risk it,” murmured Elizabeth.
“I think her husband was a pig,” said Tony. “Going off to the Crusade, and making all that fuss about a few loaves of bread. If I’d been St. Elizabeth”—
She paused, determining her course of action, and Marie ruthlessly interposed. “If you’re not a saint, you can’t tell what you would do if you were a saint. You would be different.”
There was no doubt that Tony as a saint would have to be so very different from the Tony whom we knew, that Marie’s dogmatism prevailed. Even Elizabeth was silenced; and, in the pause that followed, Lilly had a chance to impart her third piece of information. “It’s because Reverend Mother’s name is Elizabeth,” she said, “that we’re going to have an operetta about St. Elizabeth; and Bessie Treves is to make the address.”
“Thank Heaven, there is another Elizabeth in the school, or I might have to do it,” cried our Elizabeth, who coveted no barren honours; and—even as she spoke—the blow fell. Madame Rayburn appeared at the schoolroom door, a folded paper in her hand. “Elizabeth,” she said, and, with a hurried glance of apprehension, the saint’s unhappy namesake withdrew. We looked at one another meaningly. “It’s like giving thanks before you’re sure of dinner,” chuckled Tony.
I had no chance to hear any particulars until night, when Elizabeth watched her opportunity, and sallied forth to brush her teeth while I was dawdling over mine. The strictest silence prevailed in the dormitories, and no child left her alcove except for the ceremony of tooth-brushing, which was performed at one of two large tubs, stationed in the middle of the floor. These tubs—blessed be their memory!—served as centres of gossip. Friend met friend, and smothered confidences were exchanged. Our gayest witticisms,—hastily choked by a toothbrush,—our oldest and dearest jests were whispered brokenly to the accompaniment of little splashes of water. It was the last social event of our long social day, and we welcomed it as freshly as if we had not been in close companionship since seven o’clock in the morning. Elizabeth, scrubbing her teeth with ostentatious vigour, found a chance to tell me, between scrubs, that Bessie Treves had been summoned home for a week, and that she, as the only other bearer of Reverend Mother’s honoured name, had been chosen to make the address. “It’s the feast of St. Elizabeth,” she whispered, “and the operetta is about St. Elizabeth, and they want an Elizabeth to speak. I wish I had been christened Melpomene.”
“You couldn’t have been christened Melpomene,” I whispered back, keeping a watchful eye upon Madame Chapelle, who was walking up and down the dormitory, saying her beads. “It isn’t a Christian name. There never was a St. Melpomene.”
“It’s nearly three pages long,” said Elizabeth, alluding to the address, and not to the tragic Muse. “All about the duties of women, and how they ought to stay at home and be kind to the poor, like St. Elizabeth, and let their husbands go to the Crusades.”