Nan had not faced so large an audience since her appearance as Rosalind at school. She drew off her gloves before her name was announced, and as she stood up put aside her hat. At least half a dozen nationalities were represented in the auditorium; and she resolved to try first a sketch in which an Irishman, an Italian and a German debated in brisk dialogue the ownership of a sum of money. She had heard it done in vaudeville by a comedian of reputation and had mastered it for dinner-table uses. She had added to it, recast, and improved it, and she now gave it with all the spirit and nice differentiation of which she was capable. Eaton, who had heard her several times before, was surprised at her success; she had taken pains; and how often Eaton, in thinking of Nan, had wished she would take pains!
There was no ignoring the demand for more, and she gave another comic piece and added “The Ole Swimmin’ Hole” for good measure. She received her applause graciously and sat down wondering at her own happiness. Mrs. Pembroke patted her hand; she heard somebody saying, “Yes, Farley’s daughter,—adopted her when she was a child!”
Eaton was announcing the close of the programme. It was his pleasant office, he said, to deliver the natatorium that had been added to the Settlement House into the keeping of the people of the neighborhood.
“Many lives go to the making of a city like this. Most of you know little of the men who have built this city, but you profit by their care and labor as much as though you and your fathers had been born here. It is the hope of all of us who come here to meet you and to help you, if we can, that you may be builders yourselves, adding to the dignity and honor and prosperity of the community.
“Now, only one man besides myself knows who gave the money for the building of the swimming-pool. The other man is the donor himself. He is one of the old merchants of this city, a man known for his honesty and fair dealing. He told me not to mention his name; and I’m not going to do it. But I think that if some one who is very dear to him—the person who is the dearest of all in the world to him—should hand the keys to the superintendent, I should not be telling—and yet, you would understand who this kind friend is.”
He crossed the platform and handed Nan a bunch of keys.
“I’m sure,” he said, turning to the interested spectators, “that you will be glad to know that the keys to the bathhouse have come to you through Miss Farley.”
Tears sprang to Nan’s eyes as she rose and handed the keys to the superintendent amid cheers and applause. She was profoundly moved by the demonstration. They did not know—those simple foreign folk who lifted their faces in gratitude and admiration—that an hour earlier it had been in her heart to commit an act of grossest ingratitude against their benefactor. She turned away with infinite relief that the exercises were over, and followed the rest of the visitors to inspect the house. It was like Farley not to tell any one of his gift; and she felt like a fraud and a cheat to stand in his place, receiving praise that was intended for him.
On the way home she was very quiet. The many emotions of the day had so wearied her that she had no spirit to project herself into the future. And it seemed futile to attempt to forecast a day’s events, when she had, apparently, so little control of her own destiny.
“Hope Mr. Farley won’t abuse me for giving him away?” Eaton remarked, as he left her at the door. “But the temptation was too strong—couldn’t resist putting you into the picture. Your recitations made a big hit; and those people are real critics!”