part I

neither looked up my old friends nor cared to have them look me up. The captain was different. He was kindly, he was understanding, and he was not fastidious in any sense of the word. Therefore he came several times to call upon me there in my sister’s New York apartment before he sailed for Germany in October. I explained to him that a sudden financial embarrassment had arisen with me as well as with my sister’s family, and that I would be unable to then pay him the $450 I owed him. He waved away even the idea of repayment, though I emphasized the fact that I was sure very soon I would have the funds for him. I told these facts to my sister and her husband and they thought he was a wonderfully fine man. “You’ll go a long way before you ever find a man as kind-hearted as Captain Neilsen,” they told me. And I agreed that he was indeed all that.

In spite of our almost destitute circumstances we were, at least, together, and Elizabeth Ann slept with me nearly every night. But it broke my heart to look at the little darling and realize what everything meant.

At that time secretarial positions were scarce, and it was very difficult for Janet and me to get located, especially when I declined to work for less than $35 a week. Janet finally accepted a position for a lesser salary, but it took me several weeks to find a place.

_109_

About the first of December, Scott and Elizabeth decided they ought to return to Chicago, where Scott was better known and could get immediate work. For various reasons it seemed best for me to move away from that rooming-house after my family left, so I took a room at the Endicott Hotel, Columbus Avenue and 81st Street. My room there was on the first sleeping floor and had no daylight, just windows into a court which was less than ten feet wide, but the bed was comfortable, and, anyway, I could not afford to pay more than $12 from the salary of $35 which the position I had finally secured paid me.

I put on my bravest front when I bade my baby girl goodbye again, and faced the contemplation of hardships hitherto unknown to me. I felt so pitifully alone, and swallowed hard the great lump that rose in my throat as I tried to smile and blow farewell kisses to her who was my very life.

On the occasion of one of my visits to the White House I had, with the nervous apprehension born of mental unsettlement, spoken to Mr. Harding about the future.

“Why, just think, honey, I am twenty-four years old now!”, indicating that the years were piling up alarmingly and I could as yet see no possible way for me to have our baby with me.

“Well, dearie,” he had answered me with the gentleness that always aroused my most worshipful love, “if you are twenty-four years old you should be grown up, you know!”

And then he had told me how when _he_ was about that age _he_ went through a nervous breakdown, but here he was now, in the White House, and President of the United States! He was sure _I_ would weather through. And this gentle banter brought a smile back to my face. Therefore now, as then, I must remember how much I had at stake in my precious baby’s future and bear up for her sake.

One of my biggest difficulties was to live on $35 a week. It was very hard to suffer denials but I set about with grim determination to adapt myself. I continued to shun my friends to a very great extent. Captain Neilsen returned from another sea trip and came to the hotel to see me. My meagre salary oftentimes would not allow me to have even as much food as I could have eaten, especially toward the end of the week before pay day, and, pridefully concealing my poverty, I accepted Captain Neilsen’s invitations to dine with inward thankfulness for his persistent attentiveness.

There was another friend who called upon me frequently, whom I had known since 1917, but he was a man with whom I felt I must keep up appearances far more than with the captain, so I did not encourage him to call. I needed many things and I felt less conscious of the lack of these things when I was with the captain. Though the captain always seemed to have a great deal of money with him, and though he spoke carelessly of moneys he controlled, running into many thousands of dollars, still he dressed with a carelessness that often distressed me and brought my frank criticism.

_110_

In October or November I read with loving interest of the fund which was being gathered together throughout the country to go toward the erection of a memorial to the 29th President of the United States. My secretarial position was not a very exacting one, and I had ample leisure in which to do any outside work I might care to undertake, so it occurred to me that there might be typing in connection with the clerical work the memorial project would entail, and that I might help in this way to raise the fund, inasmuch as I could not myself give any actual money towards it.

Mrs. Warren G. Harding herself seemed, from the newspaper reports, to be actively engaged in the matter, and so I decided to write direct to her and make known my desire. First, however, I wrote to Judge Elbert H. Gary, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the United States Steel Corporation, to whom Mr. Harding had taken me in 1917 when I was given a secretarial position in the Corporation, and who now was prominent in the activities connected with the Harding Memorial Fund. I recalled to his mind that Mr. Harding had once introduced me to him and that he in turn had kindly made it possible for me to obtain a position in his organization, and I told him that it was my desire to be of service to those who had undertaken the initial steps in creating the Harding Memorial Fund. I waited for several days and received no reply to that letter.

Then I directed a note to Mrs. Harding. About a week or so afterwards I received a note from her secretary, Miss Harlan, expressing, for Mrs. Harding, appreciation for my proffered assistance, but regretting that there was really no way in which I could be of service. After several lesser attempts I had to give it up.

I wrote to Miss Daisy Harding and told her what I had hoped to do, and I have her letter in which she said if I had not heard from Mrs. Harding personally it was merely because she was so terribly busy. She told me how generously her brother’s home town had given toward the Fund, and expressed the opinion that he was indeed a greatly beloved President.

It hurt me more than I can tell not to have been able to help in this movement. I did so love to work for Mr. Harding or in an atmosphere that breathed of him. But it seemed to me as the days went by and I received no word of his having left any message for me, that I was more and more alone, that I was shut out and away from the very things that would have given me such comfort. For it did hurt me cruelly to receive no word that I had been in his thoughts before he went away. If only he had left a note! He might not have been able to entrust material aid to anybody in the last days, to be given over to me for our child, but I was under the impression that Major Brooks, his valet, had been with him during his last illness, and I was sure he would have given him a note to mail to me if it had been humanly possible for him to do so.

My longing for Elizabeth Ann and my yearning for the joy and comfort I experienced from being with her and loving her was sometimes more than I could bear, and I often went home after work to my gloomy bedroom in the Endicott in a state of depression which brought vividly to my mind some lines in a poem by John Keats:

“... and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme....”

_111_

The first part of December Captain Neilsen sought my advice in a matter of investment which would involve several thousands of dollars and which would take him to Texas for the culmination of the transaction. Christopher Hannivig, a wealthy Norwegian, and he, were to purchase jointly from the U. S. Government some ships, which were to be utilized for shipping oil. After consideration of the details it seemed to me it was a wise investment and I so advised my friend. He then asked me a question which I had grown used to hearing periodically and which I had always answered negatively--would I marry him? Would I accompany him to Texas as his wife and make of the trip a honeymoon?

I told him no, and I further said very bluntly that when I did marry, there were certain reasons why I must require from my prospective husband in advance of my marriage a check for $25,000 or $30,000. To my surprise, Captain Neilsen smiled and answered easily, “Oh, is that all? Well, shall I bring you my certified check for that amount tomorrow?” And than I felt ashamed because I could not then explain to him that I wanted it for a fund for my baby, inasmuch as her own father’s bequest had not yet come to light and I feared to marry unless that marriage provided amply for my child. So I shook my head.

The captain left shortly after that, returning around Christmas time. In the meantime I sought my friend, Helen Anderson. She agreed with me that it seemed to be the sensible thing to consider marrying the captain and in that way be able to take my baby. The fact that he dressed carelessly should certainly not deter me from doing the thing that would give me my baby. He was, Miss Anderson and I agreed, a “diamond in the rough,” and I would simply have to become his personal polisher. He seemed genuinely in love with me, and would sit all evening just talking to me, never attempting to get “fresh” as many another man might have done after a friendship of such long standing. I was thoroughly appreciative of these traits. I told Helen Anderson that in return for his generosity in making it possible for me to take my child, I would prove to him my gratitude in endeavoring to make him at least reasonably happy. And I was very sure I could make him over in appearance.

Upon the captain’s return from the South, I determined to tell him about Elizabeth Ann. I thought I would try him out, and see what the effect of my story would be, for, if he refused to allow me to take Elizabeth Ann, I would not, of course, marry him. But I could not marry him anyway unless I had been frank and honest about things. I had deliberately postponed the telling until we should be together New Year’s Eve, because I wanted to carry this new step in my life over into another year, not wishing to identify the year 1923, in which I had lost my beloved, with a marriage to another man. It was a foolish little fancy I will admit, but quite characteristic of me. Therefore I had postponed my confessionary revelations until the dawn of a new year.

When Captain Neilsen arrived, I found myself in a suitably revealing frame of mind. I told him the whole truth. I confessed how miserable I was without Elizabeth Ann, and gave him the entire picture just as it stood. He was kindness itself, and repeated his oft-expressed desire that I marry him. “Well, can I really _have Elizabeth Ann_?” I asked him. “Of course you can!” he acquiesced heartily. He then told me he wished me to understand his financial status, explaining that he was actually worth something over $125,000, and even itemizing on paper his holding for me to see. He said, however, it was not all available in ready cash. I said that didn’t matter _if only I could have my baby_. The captain knew of my natural extravagances in little ways, and he had, as I have said, visited at my sister’s apartment in Chicago and knew that, although I was not used to great luxury, I was at least used to modest comforts. And I was very sure I could depend upon him to provide more than generously for both my child and myself.

During the next day, not having the usual phone call from the captain, I decided impulsively that he was avoiding me, having concluded that if I actually married him I might do so from unfair motives. But I could not reconcile these conclusions with his oft-repeated proposals of marriage on any grounds that would please me. “Marry me,” he would say, “and I’ll make you happy!” I felt that he meant that he would be so generous in his material manifestations of love that I could bring myself to care for him through sheer gratitude.

But my fears were groundless. He phoned the following day and that night took me to the theatre. He asked me again and again to marry him and let him provide for me and for Elizabeth Ann, but I found that I could not even then, after my own careful decision to do just that, tell him that I would marry him. “Well, if you refuse to marry me, I will make a will tomorrow anyway, and leave all I have to Elizabeth Ann when I die. I can at least do that for you,” he said, as we sped along back to my hotel in the taxi under the elevated tracks on Columbus Avenue. This to me was the acme of generosity and touched me very deeply, though I didn’t let him know it. I told him, half-jestingly, that I would certainly go on a search the following day for an engagement ring of my liking! To this he also heartily agreed.

But the following day, after I had actually selected the ring I thought would look well with the ring my beloved Warren had given me and which I meant to keep _always_ on my engagement finger, the captain met me and said he had been unable to convert into cash some stocks which he owned and requested that I wait a while before deciding upon a ring. I felt sorry, though slightly provoked that he should act this way--first to convey the impression that money meant nothing to him, and then to refuse to buy an engagement ring for the woman he seemed to want so badly for his wife. But I decided he must be “trying me out,” and I determined I would prove to him that I didn’t have to have the _ring_ in order to marry him. _Elizabeth Ann_ was my sole motive and purpose.

_112_

I thought about it all very seriously that night and when Friday, January the 4th, came, and Captain Neilsen called me on the telephone in the evening, I informed him that I had decided to marry him the following day, Saturday, January 5th.

With my actual acceptance of his offer of marriage, it seemed to me he was taken somewhat aback, though he said he would meet me, as I asked him to do, at the Municipal Building, the following noon. He was late, but explained that he had been inspecting a ship and could not come when he had planned.

We secured our marriage license. When the man asked what the captain’s business was I spoke up and said, as he had told me many times, “He is a ship broker.” The captain looked slightly embarrassed as he said to the clerk, “Better say ‘ship’s master’.” I didn’t know that this different title meant another kind of business and it didn’t worry me specially.

With the license in hand we went over to the Savarin in the basement of the Woolworth Building for our luncheon. As we were crossing the street, I remember that the captain had said that his money was not all available. So I asked him, “You _could_ raise $50,000 if you had to, couldn’t you?” thinking I would avail myself of $30,000 to put in trust immediately for Elizabeth Ann, and the captain, Elizabeth Ann and I would keep the other $20,000 to live upon and have a home for ourselves, until he went back to work after our proposed honeymoon. “Oh, of course, if I had to, I could raise $50,000. I should say so!” The captain was very certain about it.

This was all the assurance I needed. Anyone who could raise $50,000 would have enough and plenty to keep me and my baby. And I would be economical, and would try my best to love him to show him how grateful I was that he had made it possible for me to have my baby with me.

That evening at nine o’clock we were married in the parsonage of a Swedish Lutheran Church on Lexington Avenue. Helen Anderson and the minister’s wife were our witnesses. We went to the Alamac Hotel for three days. We had driven Miss Anderson home and were alone for the first time since we had become man and wife.

It seemed almost sacrilegious to me to yield to my husband the body which had belonged so completely to Warren Harding, and I appreciated his leaving me for half an hour. It gave me an opportunity to mentally pull myself together. I told myself that I would soon have Elizabeth Ann and it would all be so worth while. But my husband looked to me so much like a million other men.... I just could not feel that I had done the fair thing by either of us.... I did not love him that way.

Monday morning following our marriage on Saturday evening I returned to work. I had not given my employer any notice and I knew I would have to remain at the office until he found someone to take my place. Moreover, Captain Neilsen had told me during the previous day that he would immediately send to Norway and get some money which his legal guardian was holding for him; and he would also start negotiations for the sale of certain property which he, as the eldest child in his family, should have urged the sale of long ago, after the death of his parents. It would amount to $90,000 in all, and $30,000 would come to him as his share.

From the Alamac we moved up to Bretton Hall, and I kept my secretarial position for a couple of weeks. I had not been married more than a week when I discovered, through questioning the captain closely, that he did not actually have sufficient funds in the bank to enable us to live even another month. But he assured me that his next trip to Europe would net him a commission of $20,000 on a ship he expected to sell. It seems to me he must have procured a loan, and with some of this money and $40 of my own salary I bought myself a diamond circlet wedding ring, for which I paid $165 and which I wore on my engagement finger next to the ring given me by Mr. Harding.

I grew fonder of the captain during the two weeks before he sailed for Europe. He was so enthusiastic about taking Elizabeth Ann, and said that just as soon as he returned from Europe we would begin the arrangements.

During his absence abroad, after I had given up my position, a friend of mine from Chicago came on to New York. When I learned she was coming, and realized how little money I had, I borrowed $150 from Helen Anderson, assuring her the captain would return it to her just as soon as he came back from Europe. With part of this I bought new shoes, a new dress, and entertained once for my Chicago friend at a small theatre party. I really felt quite dignified as Mrs. Neilsen.

As soon as the captain stepped into our room at Bretton Hall I asked him what success had attended his trip. He had not sold the boat. Nor had his money come from Norway. He looked very much distressed about it and I felt genuinely sorry for him. He kept telling me to be patient, something would “break soon.” But the weeks passed, and he said he would have to make another trip to Europe, and still nothing had “broken”--except my hopes.

_113_

I planned to go to Athens, Ohio, to visit my mother in early March while Captain Neilsen was in Europe. I had promised my mother that she could come East to be with me that oncoming summer, thinking of course that I was to have an apartment and that I would be fully established in my new home with Elizabeth Ann. I despatched a letter to my sister Elizabeth, asking her to let Elizabeth Ann come to Athens for several weeks, and this she did, my mother going to Chicago for another purpose, but bringing Elizabeth Ann back with her to Athens on her return. I was heartsick to think I could not return to New York with my baby and feel free to become settled permanently. But I knew enough by then of the captain’s financial situation to know this was impossible. I felt I had been trapped all around, though I could not that early accuse the captain of having misrepresented himself to me, and indeed I did not believe he would do such a thing. He had loved me so much, and he had actually thought that he would be able to get the money, I was sure. Still, I could not help remembering that he had told me distinctly that he had sufficient funds to keep us comfortably, and _that_ had been an untruth, for I was not even at liberty to lease an apartment because we could not pay the rent in advance. The whole situation was inexplicable. The captain’s generosity of former days, when he had sent me $200 to Europe and had had $200 awaiting my demand in New York, and had deprecated my repayment of these advances, all pointed to comparative affluence.

The more I thought about it the more distressed I became, and I could not even then admit to my family the truth of the matter. Instead, I found myself lauding the captain on all sides. I felt the situation would surely right itself, if, as he had asked me, I would give him just a little while to “get on his feet.” Like a pendulum I swung from one decision about him to another, and in the night when I reflected that after all I might not be able to have my baby with me, it almost crazed me. No one knew the state of mentality I was in, for I could not admit that I had failed in marriage, and I had not divulged our plans of taking the baby away from my sister and her husband.

Here in Athens, Ohio, at my mother’s home, I again had my baby with me and we slept together and played together, and I thought I could not stand it to give her back. I wanted her so badly that I didn’t care whether or not I ever returned to New York if I could not take her with me and have her to _keep always_. I wanted to die rather than to go on as I might have to go on--without my child. Nevertheless, after the most severe misunderstanding I had ever had with my sister Elizabeth, who came on to Athens to get Elizabeth Ann after about a month, I regained control over myself and accompanied her and the baby back to Chicago, where I visited for a week or two longer before proceeding back to New York and to my husband.

I had received instructions from him to go to live with a woman whose husband was the captain of a U. S. liner, on which Captain Neilsen had accepted the position of second officer. I lived with her for a couple of weeks and when the captain returned from a voyage, we went temporarily to a hotel again.

The first of May we moved into a furnished apartment on West 114th Street. I realized, however, that we could not live there and pay the rent of $100 a month, unless I, too, went to work. So at Columbia University I obtained a position in the Appointments Office. I worked there a part of the time, and also took small pieces of dictation from the various professors, sometimes going to their offices and getting the work and doing it at home upon a typewriter which I had rented for the purpose. I never in my life worked so hard as I did that summer of 1924.

The captain wrote Elizabeth and Scott under date of May 16, 1924, and told them that we now wished to take Elizabeth Ann. I had determined that if the captain did not make good his promise to me to provide a home for her and me without my having to go back to work as I was then doing, that I would not under any circumstances permit her to be taken permanently by us, for I would eventually have to leave a man who had so erroneously represented himself to me. But I clung to the hope of fulfillment on his part and tried hard to banish these unpleasant thoughts, so together we devised a letter which the captain signed.

In his letter to Elizabeth and Scott the captain said that we would come that fall to get Elizabeth Ann, after she had returned with them from the farm where they went every summer, and where they expressed a wish to take Elizabeth Ann with them on a farewell visit to Scott’s people.

_114_

About the middle of September I went to Chicago and got the baby. We had committed ourselves to the extent of expressing in our letter our desire to take the baby ourselves, and this was the understanding that Elizabeth and Scott had when I went to Chicago to get her. Scott looked unfavorably on the whole thing, feeling that I should not have given her into their keeping only to take her away. I had never breathed a word to them of Mr. Harding’s promise to me to take her himself as soon as circumstances made it possible, but I knew that in that event _I_ would have had her through him, and was only endeavoring to get her in another way since her father’s way was impossible.

I could not work, now that I had Elizabeth Ann, until I had put her in kindergarten somewhere, and I had no money with which to do that. The captain kept saying, or writing when he was away, that something was bound to “break,” but the first of October came and nothing had “broken.” Our apartment lease ran out October 1st and it was necessary for Elizabeth Ann and me to move. As an officer on the liner, the captain spent quite a bit of his time there, even having to sleep on board certain nights. I found it difficult to find an apartment suitable for three and comparatively cheap, but decided upon a large room which would suffice until I could find more suitable quarters. It was in 109th Street, and, although the sun streamed in at the back court window all afternoon, the place was frightfully dirty and full of vermin. My little girl was bitten at night and I soon knew we could not stay there.

The captain had said he would be in the city two weeks steady before making another sea trip. It had only gradually dawned upon me that these trips he was taking were in themselves the only source of income that the captain had, and up to this time not one of the things he had told me about converting property into money had come true. And I, who had been frank with him to the point of possibly hurting his feelings in admitting I was marrying him so that I might have a home for my child, could not understand these misrepresentations.

I cast about for a suitable apartment and at last found I could get two rooms and bath, very clean and nicely furnished, on 116th Street West, for $110 a month. We were paying $22 a week for the one room we were living in then. The captain went with Elizabeth Ann and me to look at the apartment, approved the price, and signed the lease. But he was able to pay but $50 down. I promised to pay the other $60 when we moved in, and the captain said that he would have that and more besides before I would need it.

Elizabeth Ann helped me in her adorable little way to “pack,” and at three o’clock on the appointed day we awaited the drayman. The captain had not returned as yet, but I felt sure he would be up on 116th Street with some money when we reached there. I had barely enough to pay the drayman.

The phone rang. It was the captain. He was leaving within an hour unexpectedly for Newport News to be gone two weeks with the U. S. liner for repairs. “But, goodness,” I said in utter despair, “what am I to do in the meantime for the rent? and food?” He told me to go right down to his lawyer, who had $100 which he would give to me.

Leaving things as they were, with the possibility of the drayman coming any minute, Elizabeth Ann and I boarded a subway train, and within the next thirty-five minutes were at the lawyer’s office in 43rd Street. But he didn’t seem to know to what money I referred. He asked me to phone “Angus,” as he called my husband, so that he might talk with him. I brought my little daughter in and introduced her to the lawyer. He scarcely acknowledged the introduction and I was hurt and embarrassed to tears. To think that the daughter of Warren G. Harding should be so slighted! I didn’t care how he or anybody else treated _me_, but I was furious if they were not entirely lovely to my darling. The lawyer himself had children, and I thought at least he might have shaken hands with her. What kind of a man was this lawyer my husband employed? He asked us to leave the room while he talked with the captain. There was no money from that source. This I found out after the lawyer’s lengthy telephone talk with the captain. I took Elizabeth Ann and went downstairs and telephoned Captain Neilsen from a booth. I reached him just before the liner had disconnected the telephonic service prior to sailing. He said his friend, the ship’s commander, wanted to speak to me. He came to the phone. He said he had called his wife and that she would come down that night to see me with the rent money, $110. That left $50 from the $110 for Elizabeth Ann and me to live on until further remittances from the captain might come. So, after all, Elizabeth Ann and I slept in our new apartment that night.

I have since gone over that whole situation thoroughly and fair-mindedly, and I am sure that no one could have done more to help a husband get on his alleged normal financial feet than did I to help Captain Neilsen. That is, I helped until February 1st. Helen Anderson, ever glad to assist when she could, advanced the necessary initial kindergarten fee of $108 and I placed Elizabeth Ann in school, paying $30 a month extra to have her remain there all day so that I might keep an all-day position. I had a girl from Columbia come in the mornings and take her to school and go after her at night, and in that way the baby and I reached home about the same time. In the evenings I would clean her up and clean myself up and we would go out for our dinner. I was so tired at night sometimes I thought I could not get up the next morning, and very likely I could not have done so had I not retired every night with Elizabeth Ann at seven or eight o’clock.

I was then working at The Town Hall Club on 43rd Street. I began to work there in October, 1924, and remained there for a year and a half until April, 1926, as assistant to the Executive Secretary, who had had charge of the Appointments Office at Columbia when I worked there the previous summer.

_115_

When the latter part of January of 1925 came, I knew I just could not go through the spring as I had done the greater part of the winter, and I wrote Elizabeth, who was at that time with her husband in charge of certain music work at the Ohio University at Athens, Ohio, to come and get Elizabeth Ann if she could. It hurt me to do this, for I had taken my child with the full intention of being able to provide a home for her permanently. But I could not longer stand the physical strain of keeping up the apartment, though that strain was not equal to the mental strain of never knowing whether or not the captain could meet the rent and other obligations. The last month we lived there, January, I was obliged to go to a friend for $75 to help me out with the rent, and I did so, taking Elizabeth Ann with me and meeting the friend in the lobby of the Pennsylvania Hotel. I have not been able to pay that back any more than I have yet been able to repay the Italian the $90 borrowed in 1923. And January of 1925 found me owing other debts also--school tuition for my baby, Helen Anderson’s loans amounting in the aggregate to over $300, and others.

_116_

I began very early to acquaint Elizabeth Ann with the likeness of her father, and she could pick him out in the Sunday supplements when she was as young as two. She knew, of course, my autographed photograph of Mr. Harding which always stood in a silver frame on my bedroom table, as well as pictures of other members of the Harding family, all of which hung on my wall, and my sister Elizabeth’s photograph of Mr. Harding which he had autographed for her early in 1921.

In many ways Elizabeth Ann reflects my own moods, but love for Mr. Harding seems to have developed of itself in her heart with an almost uncannily independent force. When we first moved into the apartment on Lafayette Parkway in Chicago, Elizabeth Ann was about two and one-half years old. I had a small book written by Joe Mitchell Chapple, entitled “Harding, the Man,” on the cover of which was a small picture of Mr. Harding, an excellent likeness, set against a background of American flags. The frontispiece was a larger, though not as good, picture of Mr. Harding, and throughout the book were various other pictures--one of Mrs. Harding, one of the old Harding homestead, one of _The Marion Daily Star_ Building, one of the Harding home on Mt. Vernon Avenue in Marion, and also one of their Wyoming Avenue home in Washington.

I liked the manner in which Mr. Chapple had written about the President-elect (for the book came out during the campaign of 1920) and I had written Mr. Harding that if Mr. Chapple needed a secretary I would consider it a pleasure to work for him. Anyone who was so manifestly strong for my sweetheart appealed to me as the “slickest” kind of a boss imaginable. Mr. Harding was evidently amused at my reason for wanting to work for Mr. Chapple for I remember he said it would “do no harm to write to him and ask.” However, I never did.

Elizabeth Ann took a curiously decided fancy to this Chapple book. She seemed actually much to prefer it above her own picture books, and, on the floor, her chubby little legs spread apart the book in front of her, she would sit for long stretches leafing through the pages and “reading” aloud to me the story improvised in her baby language. She had a habit of telling her stories in the form of questions, answered by herself in a slightly different tone, sometimes ringing in a third party and adapting her voice to this person also. Often, too, her stories would take the form of letters, and I can hear her now in her babyish oratory “reading” aloud to me about her own father. Slightly embarrassed because she knew she was really not following the text, she would look up at me, and with impish delight and with the smile of her father, which made me gasp, she would continue, “My _dear_ Mr. Harding, how are you? I love you, dear Mr. Harding. Mamma Nan loves you too, ver’ ver’ much....” Then she would turn to me and raise her great deep blue eyes and set her lips in the soft line which so imaged the serious sweetness of her father’s expression, and say, “Nan, dear, isn’t he a _darling_ man!” And with that I would crush her to me and smother her with kisses. Nor would I forget to tell her father on my next trip to the White House her latest sayings about him, and he would look at me exactly as she had looked and would say, “She’s rather like her mother in some respects, isn’t she, dearie?” And then he would lapse into audible musings over his extraordinary feeling for little girls, which had come over him since his own daughter’s birth, and with the most pitifully tense, unsmiling sweetness he would say, “How do you think she would _like_ me for her father?” or, “Just think, Nan, how grand it is to be a father!” and I would pat his hand and swallow to keep back my tears for I knew he was but remarking his very heart’s desires.

Often in her two-and-a-half-to-three-year-old days I would call Elizabeth Ann into my room, which was at the far end of the apartment, front, and she would come trudging down the hall, her “Harding book” under one arm, and her other favorite, an abridged edition of Webster’s Dictionary sometimes dragged along by a few of its leaves, which was the easiest way for her small hand to grasp such a grown-up volume. And once, when we snapped her picture in the back yard beside her doll carriage, her Harding book lay in the carriage, open to Mr. Harding’s picture, and the whole “took” very distinctly.

_117_

Here in New York in 1924, when I brought her on from Chicago to be with me, she was five years old. She had the same love for Mr. Harding then as when she was more babyish, but spoke of it now in an amazingly grown-up fashion. For instance, she listened when those present thought she was not listening, and naturally heard Mr. Harding discussed pro and con. But whatever she heard did not influence her deep-rooted love for the man who was her father. She so often said to me during that winter of 1924-25, raising the question herself, “We won’t let anybody talk about our dear Mr. Harding, will we, Nan dear?” And I would gaze at her and reiterate softly, “No, indeed, precious Bijiba, we won’t let anybody talk about our dear Mr. Harding,” knowing she meant “against” him, when she said “about.” “Bijiba” was her own baby interpretation of “Elizabeth Ann” and has clung to her as a fond nickname ever since.

Then again, she would request that I take down from the mantel the picture of Mr. Harding so that she could kiss it, and she would shake her head and exclaim, “Isn’t he just the _sweetest_ man!” And once she repeated what she had of course heard, “Mr. Harding is dead ... what does ‘dead’ mean, Nan dear?” And with tears I would tell her that our dear Mr. Harding has just gone away, into another land. And once, curiously twisting her query as though she knew whereof she spoke, she asked, “And won’t he ever see _me_?” And she seemed for all the world to be unconsciously expressing her father’s disappointment more than her own. And I thought sadly, as I searched for a suitable reply, no, he will never see his own daughter, not on this earth. It was all so cruel, so cruel!

I simply _had_ to ask Elizabeth and Scott to take Elizabeth Ann back by the time the latter part of January had come around. Even as early as the previous October, when the baby had been with me scarcely more than a month, I had a bitter taste of what real need was. I had exactly seven cents in my purse when I took Elizabeth Ann with me one day to the Provident Loan Society to pawn my wedding ring. I had the captain’s watch also which he had given me permission to pawn, and the combined pawnings brought $75. This enabled me to buy my darling little girl a new coat and hat and a couple of school dresses, shoes, etc., in preparation for her kindergarten. Everything seemed to cost so much; but I thought that must be because I was not used to a limited income. I wondered how people who had no more than we had really got along; I know I fervently wished that I had learned the ability that makes a dollar stretch five times its worth.

_118_

Shortly after I had pawned my wedding ring and had bought Elizabeth Ann some new clothes, I had a letter from Miss Daisy Harding, saying she was to be in New York soon to do some shopping. I surmised that she would soon be married to Ralph Lewis and in truth learned afterward from her that the trip East was for the purpose of purchasing linens, and certain garments to complete her trousseau.

Even the knowledge that my child’s aunt was, according to her own written statement to me months before, liberally cared for as a result of her brother Warren’s will, did not cause me for one moment then to consider as advisable or proper an appeal to her for financial assistance. Moreover, I had launched myself upon matrimonial waters, and, though I knew the craft which carried my child and me appeared to be headed toward the rocks, there was still hope.

While in the city, Miss Harding stopped with a girlhood friend whose father had been a prominent judge in Ohio. They lived at Broadway and 71st Street in an apartment building, and it was there that I took Elizabeth Ann one afternoon to call upon Miss Harding. Helen Anderson, who had always wanted to meet Miss Harding, about whom she had heard me speak so often, went with us.

I was glad it was cold enough to warrant my wearing my winter coat, which was trimmed with the squirrel from the coat Mr. Harding had given me the money to buy back in 1920. Thus I looked as presentable as my child. Pride would not yet allow me to admit to certain people that in less than a year I had found that, in my instance, marriage was a failure. I could not in the same breath confess I had married for a home for my child, and without such explanation I would be stamped mercenary, and rightly so.

I do not know whether the explanation I offered Miss Harding in extenuation of Elizabeth Ann’s separation from her foster parents sufficed to satisfy her natural speculation about the situation. I do remember, however, that we repaired for a little private chat, toward the end of our visit, to the play-room of the little daughter, where she and Elizabeth Ann had been playing together, and I remember distinctly that I made a broad statement to the effect that if I ever for a good reason found I could not live with my husband, I would not hesitate a moment to seek my freedom. And Daisy Harding, standing there before me, not yet a bride, echoed my statement.

When we returned to the other room, I called Elizabeth Ann and told her that we must go, but she and the little girl were having such a gay time that she was loath to leave, much less put on the little kid gloves which meant the final touch for leave-taking. And the joy of the whole visit for me was summed up in seeing her “aunt Daisy”--as unknown to her as such as she herself was unknown to Miss Harding as Warren Harding’s child--coax her little hands into the gloves and talk to her in a low voice which in the quality of its sweetness was much like her brother’s. And I could tell, though Elizabeth Ann’s back was turned to me, that she was looking straight into Miss Harding’s eyes with the same sweet seriousness which was in her father’s eyes when he talked to me about our child.

_119_

I wanted to be perfectly fair to my husband, the captain, but I wanted more than anything else in the world to be fair to my precious Elizabeth Ann. Therefore, I struggled through the winter until the latter part of January, going in debt in many directions and often using available cash to buy things for Elizabeth Ann, when pressing bills awaited payment. For instance, I could not bear not to get my darling a tricycle when she expressed an ardent wish for one, nor could I stand it to see her go without a bounteous Christmas. My sister Elizabeth sent her many lovely things and I thought, with mingled pride and relief, that she had fared, after all, far better than most children. I felt a great wave of pity and sympathy for the captain when he came home at New Year’s from another trip abroad, and brought the baby a box of toys; ungracious as I was growing toward him, such thoughtfulness toward my baby never failed to arouse my sympathy and a renewed attempt to bear up a little longer.

[Illustration: Facsimile analytical report on Elizabeth Ann at the age of five, while attending the kindergarten of the Training School of the University of Ohio, Athens, Ohio]

[Illustration]

However, I despatched a letter to Elizabeth the latter part of January and she came East almost immediately. I persuaded my landlady to allow me to break my lease. I advised my family that I was leaving the captain. Mother came in from Long Island where she was teaching, and she, Elizabeth and I, talked things over. Elizabeth said her husband did not approve of sending Elizabeth Ann back and forth from Chicago to New York whenever I found it within my power to take her for a little while, nor could I really blame him for this attitude. However, that had been my first attempt to take her permanently, and I fervently hoped that the next time would be more successful. It broke my heart to see her go, but once more I bade her goodbye from the Pennsylvania platform and watched the train pull out, taking her away from me.

After all, Captain Neilsen was not, in spite of his seeming misrepresentations, such a “bad fellow,” for he had simply loved me so much that he had thrown a veil over realities and had refused to accept true facts, preferring to pour all of his hopes into the scale of optimism, fancying perhaps he could in some miraculous manner clap his hands, and fortune, hitherto so elusive, would appear. So I didn’t really want to hurt him, but I wanted to rid myself of him now and start anew, never again to jump into matrimony with closed eyes. I had learned a very dear lesson. I was sure he had learned one also. And I had no wish to incur his enmity.

I moved into a hotel in West 55th Street the first part of February. I was working at The Town Hall Club, as you will remember, and the Club is on West 43rd Street, so my hotel was conveniently within walking distance of my place of business. My work at the Club was quite absorbing, especially because the executive secretary, whose assistant I was, was occasionally ill, which threw her work upon my shoulders in addition to my own routine work. I had been far from well myself all winter, and it was only by observing early-to-bed hours that I was able to carry on. I liked the atmosphere of the Club and came in contact with interesting people, and, for the period which I planned to go through in my immediate endeavor to seek a divorce, it was conventionally a good place for me to be employed.

_120_

I had, as I have stated, always felt that there had been some provision made by Mr. Harding for me to care for our daughter, and, after my failure in marriage, it seemed to me I ought, for Elizabeth Ann’s sake, to ascertain whether or not such a bequest existed. But even so it did not occur to me to go then to the Hardings, feeling that, since Mr. Harding had not chosen to confide his long-continued relations with me to any member of his family during his health-time, it was not likely he had done so just before his death. The most logical person, in my opinion, and the man who most likely could tell me to whom to go if he himself did not know about such a bequest, was Tim Slade. He it was who had met me so many times and had escorted me to the White House, and had come to Eagle Bay and Chicago with funds from Mr. Harding. I knew Tim Slade had long since made a change from the governmental secret service to the brokerage business, but I did not know of any further changes he had made. So, not knowing where to address him now, I merely sent my letter to him at Washington, and apparently this address was sufficient.

My first note simply greeted him after the stretch of more than two years since I had last seen him, and I wrote that if he ever came to New York I would be glad to see him. To this letter, which I had signed of course with my married name, I had an early reply. Tim wrote that he would give me a ring on the phone the next time he was in the city; that he was glad to hear from me; and that I should address him in the future at his residence, giving the number and street. Very shortly thereafter he came over to New York, called me on the telephone at The Town Hall Club, and invited me to have dinner with him at the Waldorf, where, he told me later on, he always stopped. I do not remember that I accepted his invitation for dinner that time, but I do remember very well the talk I had with him there which was the first talk I had ever had with anybody about any money Mr. Harding might have left for our daughter and me.

We sat in the lounge which one enters beyond the lobby from 33rd Street, on a couch in the north-east corner. It seemed strange indeed to be sitting with Tim Slade discussing my sweetheart in the past tense. Heretofore Tim had been merely the messenger to take me to Mr. Harding. Tim really knew very little about me. I proceeded to tell him that I had been married since I had seen him, which accounted for my new name which he told me he had not understood. It was easy to talk to Tim Slade for he knew everybody connected with the Harding Administration, and our conversation gradually bordered upon the very topic I had been apprehensively waiting for an opportunity to broach. Tim was not so aggressively curious as to give me reason to feel his curiosity was other than that any man might display toward a girl who had apparently had certain claims upon the time and attention of the President of the United States. So I thought I should proceed to elucidate certain mystifying past actions on the part of both Mr. Harding and myself which must have excited speculation on Tim’s part. I tried to lead up to such explanation by first re-establishing in his mind certain facts which he very readily recalled--his first trip to Eagle Bay in the Adirondacks in 1920 with the packet of money from President-elect Harding, his many subsequent trips to Chicago, and the times he had escorted me to the White House. Also, I reminded him of the many letters I had sent in his care to Mr. Harding previous to the latter’s arrangement whereby I sent them all in care of his colored valet, Major Arthur Brooks.

Even then I shied at a direct revelation. I merely parried with the issue in such a manner as to hint at it strongly. I said since Mr. Harding’s death there was but one thing in all the world that I wanted. I found the tears coming into my voice as I talked, and oh, how distasteful it was to me to think of speaking of such a sordid thing as money in confessing why I could not have this one thing I wanted.

“What _is_ it you want more than anything else in this world?” Tim asked me kindly, avoiding my eyes because he felt my sensitiveness.

And somehow I found great relief in confessing to him that _I wanted the daughter of Warren Harding who was also my daughter_. And when Tim turned to look at me there were tears in his own eyes as he said, “_I thought so!_”

After that I talked much and at random, explaining this and that, and Tim seemed genuinely interested in hearing the whole story. I told him how I had married Captain Neilsen with the idea of being able to take Elizabeth Ann, and how that marriage had been a failure from the standpoint of fulfilling this promise. And when I observed that it just did not seem possible that Mr. Harding could have entrusted money to someone for me who would deliberately fail to hand it on to me after his death, Tim ejaculated in great surprise, “Didn’t he leave you anything at all?” I said I would never, never believe that he had failed to do so, but I _was_ convinced that the manner in which he had done so had been such as to make it a very simple thing for the person entrusted with the money to withhold it from me.

Tim’s assertion was spontaneous and emphatic, “Well, he didn’t leave anything with _me_, that’s a cinch!” I told him I had thought such a thing was possible, but that inasmuch as he did not hold the fund I wondered if he would have any suggestions as to who might have been chosen by Mr. Harding as confidential messenger to me after his death. He volunteered to make guarded inquiry in Washington in my behalf.

I was interested to hear Tim say that he had always felt I had a very deep claim on Warren Harding, “the boss,” as he called him. He said he had half concluded that I must be his daughter by some alliance of long ago. One of the first things he said, and one which led me to believe that he was honestly sincere, was his statement that if he had known the facts he and Mrs. Slade would themselves have taken Elizabeth Ann immediately. I explained to him that I never would have consented to such a thing anyway, that discussion had occurred in other directions along this same line, but that the adoption which had actually eventuated was the whole source of my present unhappiness. _I wanted my child myself._

_121_

It will avail nothing to go into detail concerning the many points upon which we touched in our later conversations. I related during the many interviews I had subsequently with Tim Slade much of the story as it stands in this book. Tim had, of course, a slant upon many angles of Mr. Harding’s life as President which were amazingly revealing to me, and which grieved me beyond words to hear. I knew pitifully little about politics in general, and next to nothing about the inside workings of the “machine” which is apparently an indispensable part of both of our great political parties. Tim said he had gone to “the boss” and had warned him that even his closest friends were double-crossing him at every turn. He said Mr. Harding had replied, “Why, Tim, you’re crazy!” And Tim had answered, “All right, maybe I am,” and had found Mr. Harding adamant where his trust in his friends was concerned.

Tim was frank to say that he had no use for anybody coming out of the State of Ohio except President Harding. “But I certainly did feel sorry for the boss,” he said. He said many of those connected with the Harding Administration had been no less than cut-throats and that “the Chief” had really had mighty few friends.

Tim related to me his own experiences in Marion, Ohio, where he was for several months the President-elect’s bodyguard. I was sorry to hear him say frankly that he had never met such a “bunch” in all his life, and I assured him that I was certain the streak of social madness of which he spoke had developed in Marion only since the birth of the excitement surrounding Mr. Harding’s nomination for the presidency. I knew all or nearly all of the people of whom he spoke and I had known them from childhood, and the wildness to which they might have inclined as the result of a misdirected patriotic stimulus was condoned by me who knew the genuineness of my home town people. I could not believe as Tim believed, that “The whole bunch out there is rotten.” No town which could produce Warren Harding could be fundamentally wrong in any respect. It was only a temporary social dementia from which they would recover with the passing of time.

Tim said Mr. Harding had instructed him that in case of “anything happening” to him, Tim should get from his private secretary, George Christian, the President’s little black notebook in which the latter had kept private memoranda. Tim said Mr. Harding had told him he was to tear out immediately the sheets containing my several addresses and my name. I moved around, you will remember, quite frequently, and likely if Mr. Harding kept these addresses they had filled several sheets of such a notebook. However, it did seem to me, as I told Tim, that Mr. Harding would have felt it important enough to see that each time I moved he himself blotted out or destroyed my previous address, and it also seemed entirely unlikely that he would have my real name written in this notebook. Any fictitious name would have sufficed, and he and I had many secret initials which meant something to us and which he might have used for such purpose. Nevertheless, Tim said, those were his orders. It seems to me Tim said that when he had gone to Mr. Christian for the notebook the latter told him it had already been destroyed.

When I left Tim Slade after our first interview I felt sure he would be able to trace the fund I felt had been left by Mr. Harding for Elizabeth Ann and me, and Tim had spoken of his intention to speak also to Major Brooks, the President’s valet, who was with the President, Tim said, shaving him, only a short time before he passed away.

I felt very sure I could depend upon Tim, and was confident that his own expressed opinion of the terrible injustice to Elizabeth Ann would incite him to immediate action in my behalf. When he apologized for his financial position, telling me he had only recently acquired a new country home in Maryland and was shy of money, I hastened to assure him that I didn’t expect any help from him. I was merely intensely anxious to hunt down the fund which I felt sure had been left for Warren Harding for our child and me.

_122_

The Town Hall Club, through its executive offices, issued invitations for two Club dinners, the first they had ever given since the opening of their new club rooms, and the designing of these invitations as well as the supervision of their issuance was left to my execution, under the direction and approval of the Program Committee. This Committee consisted of Miss Rachel Crothers, who was also a Vice-President of the Club at that time, and Mrs. Francis Rogers. I was proud to find that I was capable of assuming many executive responsibilities, and the success of the First Club Dinner on April 27th, 1925, was a source of great satisfaction to me personally. There were seven hundred and fifty people in attendance.

I had, as you will remember, always wanted to “write,” and in my position at The Town Hall Club I was constantly meeting men and women who had actually accomplished things in the literary world. I was chafing under physical strain and nightly fatigue which were far from conducive to creative writing. But I struggled over what I thought might some day be a play, writing it around my own experiences with my beloved Mr. Harding, disguising it, of course, and making our daughter the central figure. In connection with my work under the approval of the Program Committee of The Town Hall Club, I was obliged one evening to go up to Miss Rachel Crothers’ apartment to submit to her the proofs of the First Club Dinner invitations. I adored Miss Crothers, and I longed to say to her, “Oh, I would give the world to put what I know into a play!” As it was I merely said, “I admire your work tremendously, Miss Crothers. It is the work I want some day to be doing.” “Have you ever written anything?” she asked me. “No, nothing much,” shaking my head. “Well, what you need to do is to have a _child_, and some _experience_. _Then_ you can write!” I wondered whether even Rachel Crothers could match out of the fecundity of her imagination a drama equal to mine. And she had written so many successful plays!

_123_

When the next Club dinner was held, on May 19th, 1925, a prominent New York attorney introduced himself to me as one of our Club members. In the days that followed we became friends, and, after telling him that I was merely separated from Captain Neilsen and not yet divorced from him, he was kind enough to wish to help me in this respect.

I have been told that each phase of my experience seemed a needful one, and certainly the manner in which my experience has worked itself out appears to have been providentially directed. I had not a cent with which to obtain a divorce. Moreover, the only legal grounds I had for such obtaining were the grounds of misrepresentation, and divorces in New York are obtainable only upon statutory grounds, and I would not impose upon the captain even the suggestion of collusion. Therefore I had decided that only by going to Reno would I be able to untangle the matrimonial knot which I had precipitated for my child’s sake.

Tim Slade had offered to go to a friend in Washington, who, he said, was a prominent lawyer, and who would advise me how I might best obtain a divorce and the most quickly. Tim said he thought likely it would have to be upon grounds of desertion, and for this purpose I could establish a residence in Virginia across the Potomac, commuting daily to Washington, where, Tim said, he would see to it that I obtained a position as secretary. Furthermore, he said that this lawyer was a particularly good friend of his and that he was sure he would handle my divorce as a favor to him, Tim, and charge no fee whatever.

It seemed to me that fate had helpfully intervened when I met the New York lawyer who became my friend, and, after he had sympathetically extracted from me my real reason for wanting a divorce, and the one contributing factor which had led to compulsory abandonment of cherished plans in behalf of my daughter, he stated that in his opinion I had sufficient grounds for a complete _annulment_ of my marriage, with restitution of my maiden name. This pleased me immensely. He immediately drew up what was in effect a mutual agreement between Captain Neilsen and me bearing no legal significance beyond our own promise to each other to respect each other’s rights, as though a state of marriage did not exist, until such time as I could obtain absolute legal severance. We both signed this agreement, which also specified an amount of money which the captain was to pay to me monthly, and which he did in good faith pay until my annulment the following February had been legally consummated. But this amount of money was not even sufficient to cover the rent I had been paying, and so of course would not have kept me had I not supplemented it with my own salary.

_124_

Tim Slade came over to New York about once a month, and the second or third time I met him at the Waldorf he advised me that he had spoken to Major Brooks as well as to George Christian, of course talking to them hypothetically. He said Major Brooks remembered very well indeed having received letter from “E. Baye” enclosing letters for President Harding, but he knew of no money having been left for anyone at all outside of those who were mentioned in Mr. Harding’s will. And nothing had been left with _him_. Nor had Tim’s talk with George Christian, the President’s secretary, revealed knowledge of such a bequest.

Tim seemed very sure that he could go further in his investigations. He spoke of various people who had benefitted by the Harding Administration, and who would, he said, undoubtedly be glad to interest themselves in my situation. He said he was very sure, from what he knew about the Harding family outside of the President, that it would be difficult to persuade them to part with any of their money, and his characterizations of particular members of Mr. Harding’s family were distinctly severe. But I felt sure they would come immediately to my rescue with as much eagerness to do the right thing as Elizabeth Ann’s father had always shown. I said to Tim Slade that I would prefer not to go to Harding family until we had exhausted other channels of effort, especially until he had definitely determined in his own mind that the money which I believed had been left for us by Mr. Harding could not be traced.

When I next saw Tim Slade he had not accomplished anything so far as I could see except to have further confided the facts of the situation to certain individuals of his own choosing. I did not try to advise him, feeling he ought to know the right method of procedure if his desire to help me was truly genuine.

He said there were so few men who were really Mr. Harding’s friends that the situation was a difficult one. When I met him every month at the Waldorf the time was not spent entirely with discussions about my own affair. On the other hand, Tim would tell me long stories about individuals in Washington. I was learning surprising things about such people as George Christian, Brigadier-General Sawyer (Mrs. Harding’s personal physician), Mr. Brush, who bought _The Marion Daily Star_, Harry Daugherty, his son Draper, and many, many others, some of whose names were familiar with me, and others of whom I had not heard and therefore have forgotten. The one man above all others who escaped critical mention was Charles G. Dawes, who, Tim said, was “his best friend,” and who, he was sure, would “go a long way” in helping to solve my problem about Elizabeth Ann and my rightful expectations for her.

I asked Tim if he had ever heard about the lost letter I had sent to Mr. Harding the first month of his term as President, and I explained how I had addressed it and how I had enclosed many snapshots of Elizabeth Ann, and some of myself with our daughter. This letter was not received. Tim said that he himself had assisted George Christian until the latter had got onto things, but that some one else had opened all of the President’s mail at that time. He said he did not think this particular letter had reached there for he was confident it would have been given to the President.

I told Tim about having met a friendly New York attorney and about his volunteering to assist me, for a nominal fee, to free myself from the captain, and Tim thought that would be wise.

The latter part of May I talked to my New York lawyer friend again about my matter and I put my case to him hypothetically, in the light of the natural responsibility a family ought to assume toward the maintenance of their brother’s only child despite the fact that that child could claim no _legal_ relationship to the family. I did not say of course who the father of my child was, but his answer to my question was both direct and emphatic. He was of the opinion that there did exist a moral responsibility toward such a child and that _the right thing to do for the child_ was to approach the family direct. “You have apparently tried to ‘cut corners’ by making a marriage for Elizabeth Ann’s sake. You found it has proven a failure. Now the thing to do is to do the _right_ thing, which is to go to her father’s people.”

I did not see Tim Slade again before I left at the beginning of June on a vacation of a month to be spent in the West with my people. But I remember distinctly that I made up my mind that if Tim Slade could, as he said, influence certain persons to help Warren Harding’s child, then the members of the Harding family would surely see it in the same way, and, in justice to them, they should be approached immediately. My lawyer’s assertion of the justice of such procedure strengthened me in the step I was deliberating upon, and I felt there was really but one thing _for_ me to do--make my plea in my own way to Daisy Harding on behalf of her brother’s child.

_125_

My mother, who had been teaching on Long Island, and my brother John, fifteen years of age, went West with me the first of June, 1925. Elizabeth and Scott were teaching music at the Ohio University, and so we proceeded straight to Athens, Ohio.

How my darling little girl had grown even in the four months since I had been obliged to return her to my sister and her husband! How much she looked like her father, and how happy I was to be with her again! How long and straight her legs! How lovely her eyes! And she had lost a tooth. Oh, I told her, I was so happy to see her! “Well, Nan dear, I’m happy to see you, too!” she answered, her head to one side like her father, her lips drawn into the semi-serious smile of a grown-up, as she took one of my hands in both of hers. How dear she was! And what a peach my sister Elizabeth was to take such good care of her! Nor was I unappreciative of the fact that Scott had not been unwilling to take her back even after I had taken her away with the full and expressed intention of keeping her permanently. Scott and I never agreed where Elizabeth Ann was concerned, but I conceded much appreciation to him for having been won over to accepting her back uncomplainingly in that instance.

Elizabeth said they were planning to motor back to Chicago and from there to the Willits farm for the summer, and would I not like to motor with them? This I decided to do, and in that way remain a little longer with my precious baby girl before proceeding back to New York. So about the middle of June we left Athens, by motor, for Chicago.

I continued to think about the task to which I had set myself: telling my friend and my sweetheart’s sister, Daisy Harding, about Elizabeth Ann. Our route to Chicago took us through Marion, Ohio, and Elizabeth Ann and I shared the same bed at the Harding Hotel where we spent the night. An oil painting of Mr. Harding hangs in the lounging room of the hotel, and Elizabeth Ann spied it immediately and recognized it. “Oh, there is our dear Mr. Harding,” she said, pulling my hand, and we both stood in front of the portrait silently. In our bedroom were all the needed evidences to make one know that it had been Mr. Harding who had inspired the building. Even in the bedspreads was woven the likeness of the 29th President of the United States.

That night, or early the next morning, I telephoned Miss Harding, who was, by the way, Mrs. Ralph T. Lewis now, and told her we were passing through Marion to Chicago and I would likely return that way enroute East. I had previously written of my intended trip West and Miss Harding had advised me by letter when it would be most convenient for her to have me at her home. I told her over the phone I was making arrangements to be there at the time she suggested.

We went on to Gary, Indiana, where we were obliged to spend the night because of tire trouble. The following day we were in Chicago. That afternoon, after a short rest, Elizabeth, Scott and the baby went on down to the farm, and I, after visiting with friends for a couple of days, went back to Marion, Ohio.

_126_

On my trip from Chicago to Marion I went very carefully over the whole situation as it affected and might affect everybody concerned. I decided it was paramountly _my_ problem, to solve for Elizabeth Ann, and, regardless of the shock which the revelation of my secret might cause, there did exist an obligation in the Harding family toward Elizabeth Ann, and I owed it to my child to apprise the Hardings of her true identity and parentage.

Of course, it would be difficult for me to tell Daisy Harding. It would mean for me the retracing of a word-for-word picture of that part of my life which I would fain recall only by sad-sweet memories unspoken, and the indelible imprint upon my character. Miss Harding’s cordial, “Why, come right on out, Nan!” when I telephoned her from the Marion railroad station, brought me face to face with my promise to myself: that I would not postpone the telling, but have it over with.

I had scarcely seated myself when I said, “Miss Harding, I have something which I want you to know and I am going to proceed to tell you immediately.”

I sat on the couch in the living-room. This was the first time I had been in Daisy Harding’s new home since her marriage to Ralph Lewis. On the table stood a picture of my darling, taken with Laddie Boy, and it was the first time I had seen this particular picture of Mr. Harding. I looked closely at it when I sat down. Its presence bolstered me in the ordeal I must go through.

I plunged into my story and followed it as best I could from beginning to end. Neither nervous tension nor tears stopped me until I had pretty well covered the ground. Daisy Harding’s face was a study. As I talked it expressed kaleidoscopically the varied emotions she must truly have experienced--amazement, pity, hurt, sorrow,--all there, _but never for one moment incredulity_.

The very first thing she said was, “Why, Nan, I’ll bet that was brother Warren’s greatest joy!” I said I thought it _had_ been. Then she added, “If Carrie Votaw knew this she would want to go right out there and get that baby right away. She’d just love her!” I knew Carrie Votaw’s fondness for children exceeded even Daisy’s. The Votaw’s had no children of their own. I told Daisy in tears that that was exactly what _I_ had been wanting to do ever since Elizabeth Ann was born, and especially was it unbearable for me not to have her, since I no longer had _him_.

I shall not attempt to give the details of our conversation, for it was inclusive of every phase of my situation and would be a mere repetition of my story thus far told. I showed her letters I had, and pictures of Elizabeth Ann, and she, too, saw the likeness which her brother’s child bore to him.

Miss Harding was understanding and kind, never once criticising her brother, even though she made a brave attempt to convince me that Mr. Harding’s legal wife was fond of him. Though it seemed futile to me to expend so much time discussing this point upon which no one in the world was probably as intimately informed as I, I took occasion to remark that I had fully appreciated her _rights_, imposed by the long-standing union between her and Mr. Harding, and that this recognition on my part and my respect above everything else for my sweetheart’s peace of mind, had resulted in the tragic situation I was today attempting to face.

It was pitifully plain to me that Miss Harding’s immediate concern was for the Harding name, to preserve it conventionally intact, although the very method she chose to employ in her endeavor to impress me with my own duty toward my child and her brother’s, only made her alarm the more apparent. It would be unfair to Elizabeth Ann, she said, to tell her who she was until she became twenty-five years of age--and perhaps had had a love-affair of her own. Miss Harding asserted that there was every probability that Elizabeth Ann might turn against me, her own mother, if she were told before that time. But this I would not admit for one second. I said that it might be a shock to Elizabeth Ann, but that I knew my child well enough to know that I could never lose her, because she was too much like her father and mother, both, ever to be unduly swayed emotionally by such a revelation.

“How many people know this, Nan?” Daisy Harding asked me.

I told her each one of them, not forgetting to include Tim Slade. At the mention of Tim Slade’s name, Miss Harding seemed greatly distressed, and questioned very much the wisdom of my having made Tim a confidant, telling me a story in which Tim figured and which I had heard from Tim himself, though in an entirely different version. It had to do with an alleged indebtedness left unpaid by Mr. Harding in the amount of $90,000, so Miss Harding said, which amount was due a brokerage firm for stocks of some kind to which Mr. Harding had supposedly subscribed, but for which he had failed to pay previous to his passing. The firm had sued the Harding Estate and Miss Harding said that their lawyers had advised them that, inasmuch as there remained no proof that Mr. Harding did _not_ owe it, they might better strike a compromise than have it made a matter of public knowledge. This they had done, settling for $40,000. I cannot repeat Tim’s version of the same story, but it had been colored throughout with resentment frankly expressed, for it had been the brokerage firm for which Tim had acted as Washington manager, and he therefore said that he knew whereof he spoke when he said Mr. Harding actually owed the money.

I told Miss Harding, as I had told Tim Slade, that Mr. Harding had said to me upon my last visit to the White House that he was then in debt $50,000, and I suggested that perhaps this was the very indebtedness to which he referred, although it seemed to me I did remember hearing him add something about “campaign expenses.” However, I had never been interested in remembering those things verbatim which pertained to business, though I knew by heart the sweet things he had said which affected our personal relations, and it was the amount of $50,000 which had stayed in my mind and the fact that the poor darling had said he just could not seem to get out of debt.

I would not be disloyal to Tim, who was, I was sure, trying to help me in his own way, and so I tried not to bring his name into our discussions after that, except in a general way. Miss Harding suggested to me later on that I might try in an off-hand way to get Mrs. Votaw’s opinion of Tim. Her sister from Washington was then in Marion, and Miss Harding said she thought it would be fine if the friends who had driven through from Washington to Battle Creek, Michigan, and had dropped Mrs. Votaw off in Marion, would invite me to drive back East with them when they stopped in Marion again in a day or two to pick up Mrs. Votaw, and that it would save me that much carfare. I said I would be delighted.

_127_

That evening Mrs. Votaw came over to her sister Daisy’s. I had not seen Carrie Votaw for several years, but I observed that she had lost none of her regal beauty, and she, too, had certain facial expressions which reminded me strongly of her brother. Early in our conversation, Mrs. Votaw found occasion to inquire about my Aunt Dell, who, you will remember, had been a missionary to Burma at the same time Mrs. Votaw and her husband, Heber Herbert Votaw, had been engaged in work of the same character, and it was plain to be seen that the old feeling toward my Aunt Dell was still smoldering in the heart of her whose religion, as a Seventh Day Adventist, was not generally concordant with that of my Aunt Dell, who was a Baptist.

Mrs. Votaw said to me that she had felt very bitter when my Aunt Dell had taken occasion to have published in a certain paper an article, written by my aunt, which voiced the hope of her church that Mr. Harding, now the most distinguished member of the Baptist Church, as President of the United States, might see fit to exert his influence in the direction of promoting the very worthy work which the Baptists were carrying on so admirably in Burma. I knew my Aunt Dell’s sense of humor, and it would have been too much for her to refrain from making capital of a situation such as this, and I could not help being secretly amused. But it saddened me to realize how this given instance of Mrs. Votaw’s resentment proved that the work which should be so universally missionary in spirit and never pettily denominational, was, after all, permeated with the spirit of sect jealousy.

_128_

The following afternoon I walked with Miss Harding (I never called her Mrs. Lewis, having gained her consent to continue addressing her in the old way) to the home of a friend where she was having tea. From there I went over to my friends’, the Mousers. I remember the queer sense of detachment I felt toward old landmarks which since my childhood had grown strangely unfamiliar to me. Here in my own home town, the same feeling of unreality, of walking through the picture-book, possessed me as it had in France, and it was difficult for me to realize that I was alive and not dreaming dreams. In current slang, I wondered “what it was all about.”

Yet all the time Miss Harding and I were discussing my problem. I was telling her how deeply in debt I was, and she was telling me how she had invested in real estate until she and Ralph were both frightened lest they should lose heavily. I was a bit sensitive about even discussing money, feeling assured that now that one of the Hardings knew my story, she would set about to right things for Elizabeth Ann.

Miss Harding said she herself would tell Carrie Votaw the facts about their brother’s child, but that Mrs. Votaw had not been particularly well and it would be such a shock that she would prefer to wait until later on, perhaps the following month, when she expected to see her sister again. I agreed very readily to this, and told Miss Harding I would leave the matter entirely in her hands, as she asked me to do.

When Mrs. Votaw came to the Lewis home the next time, Miss Harding suggested to her that she and her friends take me along back as far as Washington with them, and to this Mrs. Votaw heartily agreed, saying that there was ample room in their Hudson car. She said the car belonged to her friend, Mr. Cyrus Simmons, who, with his brother-in-law, would be the only other two occupants on the return trip. Mrs. Votaw remained over night at her father’s, Dr. Harding’s, on East Center Street, the night before we were to leave Marion, and I, staying at the Lewis home, slept that night in Miss Harding’s room. Her husband had left that day for Florida to attend to some business down there.

I remember well how it stormed that night. It occurred to me, as we lay there talking in our beds across from each other, that the frequent flashes of lightning and peals of thunder were possibly symbolic of Miss Harding’s mental state. I felt so sorry for her. She seemed to be so full of fear. I had passed all through the stage of fear of exposure, and did not fear anything except my inability to get Elizabeth Ann and to _keep_ her.

The question of the $90,000 came up again and I said to Miss Harding that I could not see the awfulness of her brother’s speculation, for most big men played the market, and just because the President had had no cash with which to cover his pledge, likely they had volunteered to go ahead and “play” _for_ him. Miss Harding took the attitude that her brother was above gambling. I was not, however, at all in agreement with her views that he would not have been capable of “taking chances.” He and the fellows in Marion with whom he had played cards had always played for stakes. I told her about one night when Mr. Harding had come over to see me in New York. He related how three men had approached him on the train with an invitation to play cards. They had all repaired to the end compartment. He said that he did not seem to “catch on” to them at first, but very soon he found himself deeply in debt--that is, as I remember, to the extent of something over $100, which was a considerable amount for a train card game I suppose--and he told me how he had said to them, “Gentlemen, I always pay my just indebtednesses, but in this instance I am going to give you only as much as I can spare.” Thereupon he gave them $50 and his personal card, and told them they could look him up in Washington if they desired to collect the balance. He said to me that it had been a plain “hold-up game” and that he never expected to see them in Washington at all. So, even though the $90,000 in question, which Miss Harding felt her brother did not owe, was nine hundred times the amount of the indebtedness he incurred in playing cards, _I_ was quite sure in my own mind that he had very possibly “taken chances” in this instance as well. I decided he might even have done it for Elizabeth Ann and me, knowing how he so frequently talked of “taking out some kind of a policy,” or setting aside some money for me in some way.

_129_

When finally, after discussing my problem, Daisy Harding went off to sleep, I lay there thinking, trying to recall anything of importance that I had failed to relate to her. I heard Miss Harding in her sleep mutter the word “child” several times, and I knew that the subject-matter of our conversation had drifted into slumberland with her, and wondered what she was dreaming. I was sorry, too, very sorry, that I had been obliged to tell her, for I knew the whole thing was worrying her tremendously. She had said to me that she had not known good health for quite some time, and I confess she did look tired. I felt so sorry for her and I loved her deeply; but I loved my daughter far more. In the shadows, as she lay there sleeping, she looked so much like her brother, more perhaps than any of the others in the family save the father, Dr. Harding, in whom I have more than once seen Mr. Harding so strongly that I could just hug him.

[Illustration: GEORGE TRYON HARDING, M.D. the President’s father]

It was in fact during that very visit to Marion that I had gone over to the Dr. Harding home on East Center Street one afternoon to join Mrs. Votaw, and be there so Mrs. Mouser could pick us both up and take us for a drive. Passing through the house out to the garden I had come across Dr. Harding, lying down on the couch in the living-room. I had not seen him before on that particular visit, and I went over and leaned down and kissed him on the cheek and spoke to him. His eyes were closed but I knew he was not asleep. He opened them and recognized me immediately. I doubt very much whether I have ever encountered Dr. Harding even in passing greeting that he did not remark in the same exclamatory fashion, “Oh, yes,--Nan, _Nan_! Yes, I remember how your father used to tell me how you stood up for Warren! He said you thought Warren was the finest man in the country--yes, your father used to say....” And I have known Daisy Harding to interrupt more than once and say, “Yes, dad, you’ve told Nan that before,” or, “Yes, dad, Nan knows.” And when I bent and touched his cheek with my lips and took his dear old wrinkled hand in mine, he spoke to me immediately of his son Warren. But now the voice was the far-away voice of a grief-stricken aged man, and so pitifully weak that I bent over him and listened intently to catch the words. Bless him! He was trying to recall to me my father’s words to him about my love for his son. But the feeble voice trailed off and I felt more than heard his whispered heart-cry, “Too bad Warren had to die!” My heart was so full of love and sympathy for him whose son I worshipped that something which must have been the maternal in me longed to stoop and take the snow-white head on my arm and mingle my tears with his against the wrinkled cheek. But, instead, I stood looking down upon him and seeing in the deep-set faded eyes of the father the eyes of the other, the younger man, his son and my beloved.

I have yet to see, however, except in the eyes of my baby, who is the soul of Warren Harding, the spiritual lights of understanding, gladness, and sorrow that shone from the eyes of him whose gaze was ever fixed beyond the pale of the material. I recall how one time Mr. Harding and I were motoring in New York, in a car hired by him for the purpose by the hour, and were passing under the elevated bridge at Broadway and 64th Street, when I said to him, “Darling, you have such beautiful eyes. Somehow I never can really see _into_ them.” And he smiled and answered, “Aren’t they too sad, Nan?” Yes, I told him, they were sad, but beautifully and spiritually sad.

He, in turn, seemed to delight in telling me how he loved my eyes, my lips, my teeth, my woman’s body, my voice, and my nose. It was when he said he loved my nose that I would interrupt him. “Oh, now I _know_ you must be fooling,” I would say, “because I have always heard from my family how big my nose is!” But he would shake his head and smile and plant a kiss right upon the end of that emphasized feature and swear over and over again, “I love your nose!”

_130_

It was with a great sense of relief that I looked now to my return to New York. Daisy Harding was my friend, she knew the whole story, she loved her brother dearly, and I was sure she would act quickly in acquainting her family with a situation which needed immediately to be righted for the sake of her brother’s child.

The motor trip to Washington with Carrie Votaw and her friends was, for me at least, a lark. Not since my early days in France, before the tragic news of Mr. Harding’s death reached me, had I experienced such comparative relaxation, mentally. We were a jolly four, singing songs, reciting pieces, and talking about everything--everything except those things which lay nearest my heart. I was thankful that there would be no more mental metastasis to shock and hurt me. My answer to all fears henceforth would be, “Daisy knows; _Daisy_ knows!” And I would soon, through the goodness which I knew was as inherent a quality in the Hardings as was their knowledge of right, have my baby with me permanently.

Many and many a time I thought to myself, as my eyes drank in every move Carrie Votaw made, “What a wonderful family, these Hardings! Each superlative in individual ways!” I visualized Mrs. Votaw with her brother’s child on her lap, and thought within myself that God always compensated in His own beautiful way for the things we longed for but which were not always within His will. I had so prayed that I might see our child with her father, on his knee, but instead I was to see her with his sisters whom I also loved.

Our first night enroute to Washington was spent in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Votaw and I shared the same room, and, after we had retired, it occurred to me to inquire casually concerning her opinion of Tim Slade. She answered very briefly, and said she thought that he, like a good many others, had been “roped in” unconsciously, and that he was very probably not a bad sort of man at all. I explained my curiosity in some way which did not at all arouse her suspicions or lead her to think I knew him personally, and it was very gratifying to me to know that she held no unfavorable opinion of him.

Proceeding on our way, the following day we had luncheon in the mountains at the log cabin of Mrs. Votaw’s friend, Miss Barnett. The only knowledge I had ever had of log cabins was through conversations with Mr. Harding. I think it was his friend, Senator Weeks, who had many times entertained fellow senators and friends at his camp, which was in New Hampshire. And Mr. Harding’s final exclamation, when he described for me the beauty of the country up there and the comforts of the lodge in the mountains, always was, “I wish I might have _you_ up there, Nan, way off in the woods!” He longed, he said, to carry me away to some spot like that for “weeks at a stretch.”

I was enchanted with Miss Barnett’s log cabin, with its spacious rooms and screened-in porches, its picturesque furnishings, its hardwood floors in bedrooms, where nothing had been forgotten to make the guests perfectly comfortable, the grounds, the deep green coolness of the forest which rose majestically around it. And most of all did it amaze me to see served to us a luncheon as delicately appointed as one might get at the Plaza or Ritz-Carlton.

_131_

When we arrived in Washington that night about eleven o’clock, we found Mr. Votaw waiting up for us, having received word from Mrs. Votaw as to when we would arrive. Daisy Harding had told me that her brother-in-law, Heber Herbert Votaw, had been very ill, and one needed only to glance at him to know it. I had seen Mr. Votaw only a few times, and these occasions dated back to my high school days, when he and his wife had returned from Burma on a furlough, and it occurred to me as I looked at him closely for the first time that night, that he might be described as being handsome in much the same way that George Christian was considered handsome. He had very dark hair and eyes that laughed, and teeth of flashing whiteness, and he was of pleasing height and bearing. On meeting him again after these years I liked Mr. Votaw immediately, with one reservation. It seemed to me his voice was unpleasantly loud. I decided it had been abnormally developed because of his wife’s difficulty in hearing, and was not at all his own natural voice. And further, I concluded that even if he _were_ inclined to be irritable, his late illness and resultant weakness were sufficient grounds. I remember when I was passing through the most trying months of my nervous breakdown following Elizabeth Ann’s birth, I used to manifest a disposition of irritability both in my voice and actions which I may, in justice to my true self, disclaim as a part of my nature when I am physically sound.

Yet somehow, despite these explanations to myself, I could not reconcile the irritancy of Mr. Votaw’s voice, no matter to what it might be attributable, with the meekness and patience which should mark a missionary of religion.

The Votaws lived in a very comfortable house which Carrie Votaw told me they rented partially furnished, having brought some of their own things to complete the outfitting. They kept one maid, a young girl Mrs. Votaw had befriended in a motherly way, and Mrs. Votaw herself went into the kitchen and superintended the getting of the meals. Mrs. Votaw liked young people about and very early introduced me to a young man and several young people, all nearer my own age. She was a charming hostess and did many things I was sure were done just to please me. When she said to me she wished I would come down there and live with them and help her in a secretarial way to write up her many experiences in Burma, I was quite thrilled. I thought it might work out that I could bring her brother’s child with me and in that way introduce her into the household along with myself. Then we could _all_ share her.

Mrs. Votaw talked a great deal about “wanting a baby,” and I could not help reflecting how tragic it is that into some homes come so many children, oftentimes unwanted, while into other homes where they would find welcome and love awaiting them, for some reason they do not come. I felt genuinely sorry for her and thought to myself, “How she will adore Elizabeth Ann!” even as her sister Daisy had prophesied. And her longing for a child only served to strengthen my hope of being asked very soon to bring Elizabeth Ann, their beloved brother’s own child, into their homes and into their hearts as the child of their flesh and blood. And, although I would never, never part with her, to have them know the blessing of her smile and the happiness I knew she would radiate for them all, would, I thought, be a great joy to them, even as it was for me my life joy.

_132_

One evening Mr. and Mrs. Votaw and I sat talking before bedtime, and our conversation drifted into religion. We had talked pro and con about this phase and that for perhaps an hour or more when Mrs. Votaw excused herself and went on upstairs to bed. Mr. Votaw and I talked on until one o’clock. His fervency struck me as being that of a man genuinely convinced that he had found the truth, and I expressed the wish that I, too, some day would find a religion that would fill me as satisfyingly. Mine up to this time had become merely a philosophy of my own, from conning religious books, and influenced predominately by the bitter-sweet experiences I had met up with in life. I must always have been innately religious, else I would not always have longed to know that something which satisfies the soul. But I had witnessed on all sides the hypocrisy which makes people live lives they despise and practise religions insincerely for the mere sake of upholding conventional standards. I had therefore turned into my own mental paths.

My independent thinking was of course inspired by my intimate knowledge of Mr. Harding’s apparent unhappiness with his legal wife and his evident preference, in his relations with me, for subterfuge, which seemed to promote peace of mind, rather than open rebellion and consequent turmoil. “She’d raise hell!” had been Mr. Harding’s frequent statement to me, and, even though she seemed not to love him in the way a man has the right to expect to be loved by his wife, I knew, without Mr. Harding’s telling me, that she would not release him to another. And, though I had been surrounded ever since a child with an atmosphere of strictest convention, I had found with Warren Harding that the realest happiness is of the spirit, and far transcends in its sublimity the exquisiteness of physical rapture. And stress of circumstances, preventing our more frequent trysts, and fraught with pain, had brought me to a realization that our love was a thing divine. The love I bore Warren Harding, my love for the spirit which was he, was the most God-like instinct I possessed--a thing not of this world.

[Illustration:

PHOEBE CAROLYN (“CARRIE”) HARDING (_Mrs. Heber Herbert Votaw_) the President’s sister ]

To Mr. Votaw I said, as I realized anew these things, “To me, Mr. Votaw, Warren Harding was spiritual, almost an immortal.” Tears were in my throat. “Bah!” he replied, with a slight grimace, “don’t you believe it! Warren was as material as any of us.” I marvelled that he had not understood that I only meant that Warren Harding’s soul had finely shone through the veil of his material body.

How little the world knew the true Warren Harding!

_133_

The following day I was to leave Washington for New York. Carrie Votaw and I were chatting together in the room I had occupied since my arrival, and she was showing me some of her lovely clothes, many of which she said she had not worn since the days her brother was in the White House. This hat had been bought for a garden party at the White House, and this dress was selected for another particular occasion. The prematurely snow-white hair of the woman before me, coupled with the beauty of a face which was, like her sister Daisy’s of queenly loveliness, made a startlingly beautiful woman, one who could, I reflected, more fittingly fill the role of the First Lady than she who had recently actually held that title. As I stood there handling this gown and that, my mind flew back to a certain White House reception held on the lawn one summer afternoon in 1922, the only one I ever witnessed, and I wondered if Mrs. Votaw had been there.

I had visited with President Harding that morning, in his private office as usual, and he had told me how he wished he might “get me in on” the party scheduled for that afternoon without Mrs. Harding’s suspecting the source of my invitation. As he sat pondering the possibility, I could see many difficulties--my lack of a suitable gown and so on--and I assured him I would be just as happy knowing he had _wanted_ me there.

That afternoon I strolled past the White House, along the side near the conservatory which commanded a view of the sloping green. It was a gay assemblage, and in its midst I spied my sweetheart, handsome and tall, standing with Mrs. Harding and receiving guests who were arriving in throngs. It occurred to me he stood in an unusually conspicuous spot, easily observable from my post outside the fence, and I suddenly knew he must be standing there so that I could see him. When I accused him lovingly upon my next visit of raising a hand to me as a signal of recognition, he only smiled and said, noncommittally but fondly, “That _would_ please you, wouldn’t it, Nan.” And I nodded and told him the next time I would hope for a friendlier guard, one who would not say “No loitering, young lady!” as I stood there harmlessly adoring _my_ president!

Little did his sister suspect what was going through my mind as she spoke of this gown and that and I viewed them in unfeigned admiration. And, I thought, wasn’t it just like her to have invited me on one occasion to wear her own black wrap trimmed with ermine, and one of her evening hats? If I were to live there, it would be just like her generous self to let me wear all of her pretty things!

Before we went out of the room, Mrs. Votaw went to the dresser and took from one of the dresser drawers a black pin-seal wallet or bill-book. It bore the marks of long usage.

“Here, Nan. You always loved Warren so much and I want you to have this. Brother Warren carried it with him right up to the time he died, and that makes it very precious.” What could I say to her! How could she know how it tortured me to see again the old familiar wallet and to experience the rush of memories which this new sight of it conjured up for me! How often had I adored the offhand manner in which her brother had inquired of me across the dinner-table, “How are the finances today, Nan?” or, “Have you paid Mrs. Johnson your rent a month in advance?” And whether or not my finances were in good shape, he would draw out contemplatively a twenty or fifty, depending upon my immediate needs, often a cigarette between his lips, his eyes narrowed to keep out the smoke, as he drew the bill from the wallet. Then he would hand it to me and say, “Better put that in your bag, dearie, right away,” if I sat oblivious, adoring the nonchalant manner in which the cigarette hung from his lips--I never saw anyone smoke with such perfect grace as he. The leather fairly smelled of him! How queer that she should have elected to give me _this_ as a memento! Yet here it was, the empty bill-book, and I opened it to read in gold lettering his name, “Warren G. Harding.” Why, it was in this very worn wallet that he used to keep a certain snapshot of me to which he had taken a particular fancy! Now, at the hand of his sister, it had come back to the mother of his child....

[Illustration: The President’s wallet, presented by his sister, Carrie Votaw, to the author in 1925]

My heart was full of gratitude for these visits, both with Miss Harding in Marion and with Mrs. Votaw in Takoma Park, suburban to Washington. It seemed I had surely trod upon holy ground, for had I not been among those who knew and loved him dearly? Yes, it was good, good to have been in both homes, good to renew friendship on a more intimate basis, good to realize how genuine was their affection for their brother, whose child they would surely welcome lovingly, and who in turn would know the full depth of their love in the material expression they would give as proof.

_134_

I returned to The Town Hall Club in New York on July first (1925) to take up my duties again, and took a room within walking distance of the Club.

July passed and no word came from Daisy Harding. So on August 3rd I wrote her briefly, greeting her again after the lapse of a month or more and making inquiry as to whether she had seen her sister, Mrs. Votaw. When Daisy Harding speaks of Elizabeth Ann, she often calls her “Bijiba,” the baby’s self-imposed nickname, and in her letter she used merely the initial “B” to indicate “Bijiba.”

She wrote: “I feel that we have such different ideas about men and our relations to them that it is useless for me to suggest or advise.” (Why, I had _sought_ her counsel, her help!) “I want so much to see you happy and attain the desires nearest to your heart that I hesitate to say anything which might interfere with your plans....” (Plans? I had no plans, as she surely must have known, except as they might develop through financial help from the Harding family.) “... My heart goes out to you in any of your suffering, relative to B-- (Bijiba), and you must know and feel that....”

This letter astounded me. Even the concluding words of endearment, “Lots of love, Nan dear,” failed to carry the usual note of sincerity. I read and reread the passages pertaining to Elizabeth Ann, trying to read into them something which was obviously not there, trying to discern an attitude of active interest instead of merely a passive inactive acceptance of a tragic situation. Could it be that she had failed to understand that my revelations to her had been for the express purpose of bringing the Harding family to a realization that there existed an obligation on their part to Elizabeth Ann, and not merely to solicit sympathy and discuss the intimate details of my relationship with her brother?

If such were the case, I would have to make plainer the import of my appeal to her, and frankly state my desire to see this wrong toward my child, and their brother’s, righted. She had asked me, with kindly spirit and apparent understanding, to “leave it with her,” and she had promised to confer with her sister, Mrs. Votaw, at the earliest opportunity. Was it possible that this talk between them had resulted in the apparent indifference her letter indicated? Impossible. They were _Hardings_!

But I had their brother’s daughter’s future at stake, and her welfare was dearer to me than life. I deliberated well, and then wrote her at length, and below are excerpts from my letter which dealt almost entirely with Elizabeth Ann’s problem:

“New York, September 23, 1925.

DEAREST MISS HARDING:

... When I was in Marion, I remember distinctly that you told me how deeply sympathetic and interested Mrs. Votaw was bound to be if you told her the whole story about Elizabeth Ann as I had related it to you. In your letter recently to me you ignored completely Mrs. Votaw’s possible visit to you.... I am naturally assuming therefore that you have told Mrs. Votaw and the attitude you felt sure she would take has not been the attitude she actually has assumed. Of course, the mere fact that you did not even allude to your having had a discussion with her on the subject has hurt me very deeply.

I hope you don’t mind my talking in a rather business-like manner about a subject which is a veritable part of me and nearest and dearest to my heart, but the time has come when I must make some kind of separation between sentiment and being fair to Elizabeth Ann. When I went West in June, as I told you, my sole reason was to talk with you and gain whatever helpful suggestions you might make. Your saying in your last letter that my attitude toward men and that of your own were at such wide variance as to make you hesitant about making suggestions was another thing that hurt me quite a bit. I will admit that Elizabeth Ann’s father and I indulged in the height of unconventionality--but to be fair to myself, I must say that it was as much his idea of right as mine--and I shall never be able to attach one iota of sordidness to the beautiful, natural, and finely impelled love we had for each other which resulted in God’s giving us Elizabeth Ann.

I am very sure, knowing your loving regard for his happiness and your deep affection for him as a brother, you would not in the same breath imagine him capable of being actuated by any but the finest, truest motives, and that I, loving him as I always have, could respond had I not instincts as lofty as his own. Bless him! But my declarations now are merely to prove to you that if you loved him one-tenth as much as I, you would lose sight entirely of the “right” or “wrong” of the question, in assuming that you are incapable of advising or helping simply because our views concerning relations with men differ, in your desire to see things as he saw them--and in your intense longing to help me to solve the problem which his tragic death has left unsolved.

Not that I believe you do not want to help me. Understand me, I am sure you do. Both you and Mrs. Votaw. Else you could not have loved him dearly. I think I would have died for him. But my problem now is to _live_ and care for and protect a precious gift--our gift to each other. I wish I might picture to you his face when he talked of the future--the worshipful sweetness of his smile when he talked with me about Elizabeth Ann--his pride in her, his adorable pride in me, his enthusiasm about little girls in general, where, he said to me, the very last time I saw him, he “never used to feel so deeply moved.” You see how I have all these things with me, and how endeared every remembrance makes her to me.

[Illustration]

It has all been going through my mind all summer, and I feel very strongly that before I take any big steps, I should immediately put my problem up to you very frankly.

You intimated to me that perhaps this fall--your property there having involved your own income quite deeply--you might be able to help me to put E. A. in school--to have her with me. I am up against the following problem:

I could, presumably, though not positively, procure funds wherewith to enable me to put E. A. in school this winter--but ever since I married the Captain in order to _have_ E. A. permanently, have I been borrowing--from Peter to pay Paul. It has not worked out at all well. I am now in debt over $500 and only this very afternoon have I gone on the witness stand in an endeavor to have my marriage annulled and start anew....

Now, my mother, not having been in particularly good health this summer, and so far not having a school because of her health, is, you know, a fine teacher. I have been considering having her come East with Elizabeth Ann ..., take a two or three-room apartment, have her tutor Elizabeth Ann part of the day and have E. A., for the sake of being thrown in with children, go to kindergarten the other part of the day.

It will involve quite a bit of expense considering that I myself can live on my salary, but could not begin to keep two others. Mother would simply be hired in the capacity of a teacher, though of course the compensation she would ask of me in money would be small in proportion to that which I might be obliged to pay a regular tutor. I would, however, have to maintain an apartment, buy the food, clothe all of us, and meet E. A.’s kindergarten expenses and other expenses connected with such a program.

If, for instance, you would be willing to help to the extent of taking care of E. A.’s kindergarten expenses, and Mrs. Votaw would meet her expenses so far as clothes are concerned--and I would endeavor to be as economical as possible and still keep her looking as well as the children she comes in contact with at school--it would relieve me greatly. It is possible that my mother can find something worth while to do and would be able to fill in the hours E. A. is in school to advantage.

As I said, I am assuming that you have told Mrs. Votaw. I know in my heart that you girls could not be his sisters and feel disinterested to the point of not being eager to do anything you could--and I have an idea that Mrs. Votaw could be appealed to to see the thing in its true light, as a problem that I am up against for him as well as myself. You know, of course, that I would not think of having E. A. go through her life and not know who she is,--I am too proud of it, to begin with, and it is only fair to her to know. And when I feel she should know, I would adore to be able to tell her how her father’s people came to my rescue so that she might be reared in the manner he has so often pictured to me. And when that time comes I would love to have her be more than merely acquainted with you. I need not say that she is the most lovable of children--all that have I told you--but I may say that I feel some day she will make us proud of her, if she has the opportunity she should have as his daughter.

As I say, I have people in mind whom I would feel absolutely safe in going to--men in particular of whom E. A.’s father has spoken with fondness,--but it seems to me that we, as two families interested, should be able to work out some means, through working together for her good--and, after all, the burden will not fall upon the shoulders of one of us, but on all.

I am writing to Mrs. Votaw tonight, asking her if I may run down, very possibly this week-end, to see her. I imagine it is her delicacy of feeling toward me that has inclined her to remain silent. But it is absolutely my problem to solve and I feel I must reach out in every _right_ direction until I exhaust every effort. Then, and only then, will I feel justified in turning to outsiders.

Curious how sure I feel that things will come out all right. I merely feel that instinctive longing to do the thing that is right and to be fair with everybody, and have everybody deal fairly with me. It is bound to come out that way....

Lots and lots of loving thoughts to you.

Affectionately, NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”

_135_

To Mrs. Votaw, under the same date, September 23rd, 1925, I wrote:

“DEAR MRS. VOTAW:

Won’t you write me in the enclosed envelope whether or not it would be convenient for you to have me run down to see you this week-end? I could make the Friday night train and arrive Saturday morning, or I could come down Saturday morning and arrive in the early afternoon, returning Sunday night.

I’d love to see you.

Most affectionately, NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”

Under date of September 25, 1925, Mrs. Votaw wrote me a short note in longhand. I took heart when I noted the salutation, “Dearest Nan,” but the note itself was not especially heartening. She wrote that she had had a great deal of company. “Am just all in--been going to the Sanitarium for a week taking treatments and fighting to keep on my feet, ...” she wrote. The doctor had informed her that she must go to bed and be quiet for a time. After that she was going to Clifton Springs, New York, where her sister Daisy would soon join her. “Am so tired--hope you are feeling well,” the note ended.

Not a single intimation that she knew my story! Never a word of sympathy for me, though she must have known from her sister Daisy that I, too, was nervously exhausted beyond words. Never a promise of help, though she must have known the purpose of my desire to see her. It was all so evasive. Yet the tenor of the note, with its implication of a rather sudden breakdown, seemed to my sensitive mind to impute to me responsibility therefore, if it resulted from revelations made by Daisy Harding. Not to be permitted to see her, to talk with her, and give her the many details I had given her sister Daisy, seemed to me unfair treatment. It left me with the feeling a child has when accused of something and sent off to bed with no opportunity of explaining his innocence.

_136_

While I still puzzled and grieved over the disappointing note received from Mrs. Votaw, I received a cheering telegram from Daisy Harding. She wired that she had arrived home, the night before my letter reached her, from a trip into Illinois and Indiana. “You can count on me for K and C funds,” she said in her wire. She asked my permission to send the letter she had received from me on to her sister, Mrs. Votaw. The telegram was signed, “Mrs. A. A. Stuart.” I assumed that Miss Harding had not wanted to sign this telegram in her name “Mrs. Lewis” because of the necessity for having it go through the telegraph office where she might be known. However, it occurred to me that the wire itself was so coded that it would have made little difference. I knew that “K” and “C” referred to Kindergarten and Clothes funds, and I was delighted that she wished to send my letter on to Mrs. Votaw.

In the meantime, however, under date of October 5th, 1925, I had written Daisy Harding again, telling her of Mrs. Votaw’s letter to me and ending my letter with the following sentence:

“You know I must know now whether or not you and Mrs. Votaw are interested in helping, because it means looking ahead to Elizabeth Ann’s happiness a long, long way.”

Then, upon receipt of the above telegram from Miss Harding, I wrote her again, under date of October 8th, 1925. I acknowledged her wire and told her she could be sure I would do everything to co-operate in any way she suggested, and that there was no reason why everything should not go along in a perfectly quiet, normal way. Then I wrote, in the same letter, as follows:

“My mother writes from Athens that she is making Elizabeth Ann’s last winter’s dresses over and getting herself in readiness to come East if I want her to--and I certainly do. I have been looking at three-room apartments and shall definitely decide upon one, now that I am sure about being able to have the baby. Oh, it will be such a joy! I am so happy about it.

I have begun again a course in writing and am so interested in making a success of it some day. I read the other night that Mary Roberts Rinehart began when _she_ was twenty-eight--in the evenings when her children were sleeping--and why not try to emulate Mary Roberts Rinehart!... By all means give the letter to Mrs. Votaw.... I hope she is much better.

By the way, I saw T. S. last night for a short time and am having dinner with him tonight at the Waldorf, where he always stops. He had another gentleman, a friend of his, with us, and we talked current events--and I had to leave comparatively early. He is a fine man--and I can assure you he is a man of honor....”

“T. S.” of course meant Tim Slade. I was meeting him every month and having dinner with him at the Waldorf, and he was assuring me he was still working upon Elizabeth Ann’s matter.

Daisy Harding had asked me not to tell Tim, or my sister Elizabeth and her husband, Scott, about my having talked with her. It was comparatively easy for me not to speak about it to Elizabeth and Scott, for I only talked to them in letters, but I unintentionally allowed something to slip one night in talking with Tim, and divulged to him the fact that I had seen and talked with Daisy Harding. However, this was not until some time in November or December, and I had seen Daisy Harding in June of that same year, 1925.

Tim had previously inquired whether I thought I would be able to have the baby with me that winter, and I had told him it was going to be possible, not telling him I had talked with Miss Harding, and allowing him to speculate as he might about the source of the added income which would of course be necessary for such a regime.

_137_

It was with hopeful heart that I met Tim each month at the Waldorf, for I felt so sure that one day he would bring me the news that he had located the fund left, as I fondly thought, for Elizabeth Ann, or if not this news, perhaps the next best, viz., that he had been able to secure substantial funds, either through interesting the Votaws himself, he and the Votaws wishing to surprise me, or by taking the matter to the men whom he had spoken of as Mr. Harding’s most loyal friends, notably among them Charles G. Dawes.

I was physically worn at that time, and, despite Daisy Harding’s willingness to defray part of my expenses, I felt sure I was going to find it beyond my power to carry on. I was ready to accept for my daughter a fund which would in point of fact really be charitable donations from her father’s best friends.

So I suffered Tim’s plans to go on uninterrupted, and hoped and prayed that the Hardings themselves would come to a realization of what they should do for Elizabeth Ann. If a fund of some sort could be established, and Elizabeth Ann given the income therefrom, such income could be in part applied upon our monthly expenses and enable me, through her own income, to have her with me.

I accepted tolerantly Tim Slade’s oft-expressed opinions of the various members of the Harding family, feeling it would be only a matter of time when he would see for himself the characteristics I knew so well predominated _in the hearts_ of the Hardings, no matter what the issue, so long as that issue was _right_. And I felt sure they would come to see that the right thing to do for their brother’s child was to enable her, through their financial help, to share with them some of that money which their brother had made possible for them to enjoy, and further make it possible for her mother to have her. Women like Daisy and Carrie Harding were not the kind of women who would stop in at a meat market downtown to buy some poor street mongrel a piece of meat, as I remember well they used to do in Marion, and then fail to experience that far greater sense of human sympathy and sense of justice where their own brother’s child was concerned.

So Tim Slade’s repeated statement, “They don’t want to part with their money, I tell you,” fell upon deaf ears.

“Gee, if I had known this during the presidential campaign of 1920, you could have had anything you wanted, and I myself could have got you anywhere from $200,000 to a million!” was in substance Tim’s statement to me, “and with only a crook of your little finger, too!” he added.

When I said to Tim that such a request from me would have been as foreign to my thoughts as would have been the idea of threat of exposure of my sweetheart, he replied that the money was going those days to far less worthy causes than mine. He even cited the case of the woman whom I have called Mrs. Arnold, of Marion, Ohio, whose name had been mentioned with that of Mr. Harding during the campaign. “Look what they did for Mrs. Arnold! Why, they sent her to the Orient!” Tim declared. I remembered hearing that she had gone abroad upon the heels of the gossip which arose during the campaign.

“Yes, and they gave Mrs. Harding plenty of money, too!” Tim continued his amazing revelations. “And all the time _you_ held the safety of the Republican Party in your hands!” But, I told Tim, Mr. Harding was the man I _loved_, and moreover he was at the time making ample provision for his sweetheart and our child, and Tim’s implication that I should have taken financial advantage of the campaign situation filled me with resentment. However, as he said, here I was, fighting to keep on my feet, and depending upon my sister and her husband most of the time to keep the child who should have been a first consideration at all times. And I could not but concede that this was true. I knew, though others perhaps would not believe it, that my darling sweetheart had his child constantly in mind, and I could never, never be convinced that he had not made as adequate provision for her, in case of his passing, as he had personally provided for her and me during his lifetime.

_138_

Tim Slade had quite a lot to say about Mrs. Harding. He told me how once, when he was preparing to make a trip to Chicago where he was to meet me at the Congress Hotel to deliver a package, Mrs. Harding had said to him, “Tim Slade, _what are you doing for Warren_?” And Tim, glad of an opportunity to arouse her curiosity, replied blandly that he was doing nothing at all. “Well, you _are_!” she insisted, “and what’s more, I’ll see to it that you are put out--I’ll make you lose your job!”

He said it had infuriated her to think he had such a direct entree to the President and upon a matter about which Mrs. Harding knew nothing. According to Tim, he answered her, “Listen, my dear lady, you couldn’t do a thing to me!” And he said she knew it, and that further infuriated her.

I never quite understood how Tim would dare to defy the First Lady of the Land, but from the things he has told me, such defiance on his part was of frequent occurrence, and yet never lost him his government job in the secret service.

Tim said he _knew_ that my relationship to the President, whatever it was, was of paramount concern to Mr. Harding, to the “boss,” as he so often called him when speaking of the President to me. In this connection he told me how, upon different occasions, when he had received either a telephonic communication from me or a letter, he had gone immediately in each instance to the President, and the President, no matter whether he was occupied with state matters, or a game of cards in his private apartment, had given Tim the strictest attention while the latter delivered his message from me.

Tim, having lived for twenty-one years in and about the White House, knew and was known to everybody from the maid-servants to the Cabinet members, and knew even the gossip of the White House kitchen. It was in this way that I learned from Tim that Mrs. Warren Harding had not been a popular mistress during her brief reign. Tim explained to me that Mrs. Harding wanted her finger on the pulse of every activity in the White House, and it was to this end that she had endeavored to direct even the functionings of the servants’ quarters.

However, our conversations were not entirely taken up with the discussions pertaining to my own difficulties, and I feel quite well acquainted with certain phases of Tim Slade’s own life--his beautiful country home, for which he said he paid $35,000 when he purchased it early in 1924, I think, and his various cars, dogs, social doings, intimate contacts with George Christian and Mr. Christian’s family, and so on.

_139_

Tim early revealed to me what he termed the “inside dope” on _The Marion Daily Star_ purchase by Mr. Brush and Mr. Moore. He said that Mr. Brush would be vitally concerned in seeing that no expose of Mr. Harding’s love-story was made, for it would affect the sales of his paper. Tim was of the opinion that Mr. Brush ought to be asked to contribute to any fund he, Tim, might undertake to raise for Warren Harding’s daughter, because Mr. Brush had benefitted greatly from Mr. Harding’s sale of the _Star_. Just why or how Mr. Brush had gained, I do not remember, though Tim explained it all to me at the time.

But I do remember the incident which led me to think that Tim Slade wanted to approach Mr. Brush as much in his own behalf as in my daughter’s: He said that when Mr. Frank A. Vanderlip came out publicly with statements concerning the sale of _The Marion Daily Star_, Mr. Brush immediately promised to pay him a certain sum of money if he, Tim, would intercede and successfully handle the situation. Tim said that Mr. Vanderlip, on the other hand, called him to his home, or office, and offered him a straight $35,000 a year if Tim would work for _him_. This offer Tim said he refused. What Tim could do for Frank A. Vanderlip, beyond negotiating in the matter about the _Star_, I do not know. In any event, Tim said that he was responsible for having smoothed the matter out for Mr. Brush, but, up until the time he repeated the story to me, he had not received payment for his services.

Evidently, from the interviews which followed with Tim Slade at the Waldorf, he was not allowing any grass to grow under his feet. He told me he had called Mr. Crissinger on the phone and had intimated to him the nature of my problem, and that Mr. Crissinger had been eager to learn the details. “Dick” Crissinger was a Marion man whom Mr. Harding appointed Governor of the Federal Reserve in Washington, and who now holds that position. However, when Tim called Mr. Crissinger the second time, presumably to make a definite appointment with him, inasmuch as Mr. Crissinger had been frank to say he was very much interested in hearing the whole story, Tim said he was informed very curtly by Mr. Crissinger that he knew nothing about the matter nor did he care to know, and that he refused to have anything to do with it at all. I said to Tim that it looked as though Mr. Crissinger had approached someone else in the meantime and had received suggestions as to the attitude he should take.

About George Christian, President Harding’s private secretary, Tim seemed to feel only the one thing which he very often expressed, which was in substance, “Poor old George! If anything else comes to his ears about the Harding Administration, I don’t know what will happen to him!”

How terrible it all was, to be sure! The more Tim told me of Mr. Harding’s “friends,” the more my heart bled for him who had leaned upon them for the same gracious support and loyalty he had so generously bestowed. If such conditions existed, and Warren Harding, having trusted and been betrayed, really knew about them, what heart-break it must have brought! Tim’s revelations were startling, yet the court trials, the talk, and the scandal that had gone on since Mr. Harding’s tragic death all helped to make them seem plausible to me.

_140_

During the summer of 1924, when I was married and doing secretarial work at Columbia University, I had even then been endeavoring, in the evenings, to produce literary work, and in this connection had sent one of my pieces to _The Marion Daily Star_ for consideration. It was a story in dialect, and probably not really available for newspaper use. But I sent it anyway, and addressed my communication to a childhood friend, who has for some years been connected with the _Star_, James Woods. When I was a little girl, “Jimmy” used to live next door to us. He “carried papers,” and Mr. Harding had watched his industriousness and rewarded him with the responsible position he now holds. Jim Woods had taken the manuscript of my story to Roy D. Moore, editor of the _Star_, and Mr. Moore had in turn read it and written Jim a memorandum of considerable length, which Jim in turn sent on to me in explanation of their refusal of my story. In this memorandum, Mr. Moore was generous in his praise for what he termed my native ability, and urged that I persevere and make of myself the writer I desired to be.

I related this incident to Tim Slade. I told Tim I had written a poem, about Mr. Harding, which I wondered if the _Star_ would print. Tim answered that anything I wanted printed in the _Star_ I should just give to him and _he_ would see that Mr. Brush had it published! Of course, such forced publication did not appeal to me and I have not again approached _The Marion Daily Star_ with any of my material.

I told Tim also about having written to Mr. Fred Scobey during that same summer, feeling even then that I might essay to interest one of Mr. Harding’s friends in Elizabeth Ann, in case something happened to me, or, as was growingly obvious, in case I eventually had to ask outside aid.

Tim told me that President Harding had offered the position of Director of the Mint to Mr. Scobey. “Why,” I said, “he _was_ the Director of the Mint, I believe.” Tim answered that he himself had refused the post and Mr. Harding had thereupon tendered it to Mr. Scobey. Tim said, yes, Mr. Scobey had held the position for a while, but had resigned on account of ill-health. I spoke to Tim of Mr. Harding’s fondness for Mr. Scobey. Mr. Harding one time told me how he had handed Mr. Scobey a letter addressed to me in New York with the request that he drop it in the box on his way home; that was in the Senate Office. I had said to him, “_Why_ do you do those things, honey? Mr. Scobey might have _opened_ it!” He said no, he would not open _any_thing, that he was utterly trustworthy. “Why, Scobey’s my best friend, Nan!” Mr. Harding had said to me. No betrayal of trust on Mr. Scobey’s part would ever be entertained in the mind of his friend, Warren Harding. And so it was with the rest of Mr. Harding’s friends. He trusted them all implicitly.

Tim Slade said that the position of Director of the Mint paid only $5,000 a year and that he wouldn’t accept it. I wondered what the secret service men received as salary, for Tim had told me he had been employed in that capacity by the Government for twenty-one years. Mr. Harding must have made it possible, I thought, for Tim to be advanced to a position paying a larger salary, and I recalled how the newspapers had stated, in the Teapot Dome Trial, that Tim Slade was receiving $1,000 a week as manager of a brokerage firm in Washington. In casual conversation about that trial and Tim’s appearance on the witness stand, I said, half-jokingly, “Well, they even published your salary!” And he said he had not received that much.

Tim talked very freely to me about everything and the statement he often made, “They can’t pin anything on _me_!” seemed to indicate that although Tim knew a great deal about everything that was going on, and moreover had gone personally to Mr. Harding to warn the President of conditions which were constantly at work against him, so far as Tim himself was concerned he had kept aloof and could not now be identified with anything of a disagreeable character which had developed as the result of the Harding Administration.

I asked Tim his opinion of Harry M. Daugherty. He said he thought he was “crazy,” and that instead of attempting to write a book, currently rumored as Mr. Daugherty’s purpose, it was Tim’s judgment that he had better “fade out of the picture” as quickly as possible. I remembered the Hardings had spoken of Mr. Daugherty with affection and admiration, but this was only another instance where Tim and Mr. Harding’s people did not seem to agree. Mr. Harding certainly regarded Harry Daugherty as a friend.

Among other newsy items which Tim advanced for my interest and sometimes for my amusement, was the statement that even Brigadier-General Sawyer, personal physician to Mrs. Harding, and remembered by me since childhood for his diminutiveness and pointed goatee, was given to philandering. This and many other stories which I heard seemed so grotesquely incongruous, when I visualized the appearance and idiosyncrasies of the various indulging culprits, that I laughed heartily.

Tim said it was well-known that the Edward B. McLeans, of Washington, were very lovely to Mrs. Harding. Mr. Harding had several times spoken of the McLeans to me, and one time in particular had he referred to Mrs. McLean when we were dining in New York and I was carrying our baby for the fifth month. “Why, dearie, I have known some women to keep their figure almost in normalcy up to the time the baby comes. I remember I attended a reception given by Mrs. McLean just a month before she had a child, and some of us were amazed to learn afterwards that she had given birth to a baby.” This was cited to me in connection with my remaining in the United States Steel Corporation where I was working until July. I, too, Mr. Harding thought, carried my child with slight showing.

It was Mr. Harding himself who pointed out to me the McLean residence when I rode with him in Washington upon my visits there back in 1917-18. But at that time, as Senator, he was not so intimate with the McLeans. In fact, Mr. Harding then seemed to speak of Mr. McLean, as well as Senator Newberry and others, with awe, and I can remember how he used to say such-and-such a person “has a pile of money, Nan,” probably looking up to them somewhat for having acquired the riches which he himself might never possess.

_141_

Meanwhile, during these monthly visits of Tim Slade to New York, “to report to his boss and get his salary check,” I was going ahead with my plans to have my baby and my mother with me in New York under the arrangement worked out by me with the financial assistance Daisy Harding had agreed to provide.

Under date of October 16, 1925, I received a letter from Miss Harding.

“I sent your letter on to sister but it didn’t have the desired effect,” she wrote, “but I’m glad I sent it just the same....” Mrs. Votaw had written her sister Daisy that she had been ill and in the sanitarium, Miss Harding wrote to me, and, following this, she said, “Somehow, I can’t write it in a letter, the whole situation, resulting from the disclosure to her and her husband, especially in regard to him (Mr. Votaw) who just idolized E. A.’s father and therefore can’t and doesn’t want to believe it....” Those had been almost Tim Slade’s identical words to me, “Say, they _don’t want to believe it_!” Miss Harding went on to say that her sister, Mrs. Votaw, could not understand why, if I cared so much for their brother, I should have found it necessary to tell so many people the story about Elizabeth Ann’s identity as our daughter. It occurred to me that in a nation of millions, the real truth was that our story was known to amazingly few! I could count on less than ten fingers those who had heard it from my own lips, and this number included Daisy Harding and Tim Slade as well as certain members of my own immediate family who had been indispensable in the handling of our situation to date. As for the two or three others, friends of mine, they had certainly shown their friendship for me in guarding well the secret entrusted to them. I determined to make a point of this picayunish written parley either to Miss Harding or to the Votaws when I wrote to them. I felt my resentment was justly indulged. If for six and one-half years I could, with Mr. Harding, protect almost to inviolability a secret as colossal as ours, it seemed to me I deserved credit for that much at least.

“As soon as you make arrangements for E. A.’s return to New York, let me know as to schooling, etc., and I’ll help you as much as I can.... I want to help you,” Daisy Harding wrote in this letter. I knew that the school circular I had sent her which specified $165 for Elizabeth Ann’s kindergarten expenses could not as yet have reached her. Miss Harding spoke of having made some investments and promised me some help on my debts as soon as she realized some profit on her investments. Her letter, signed, “Lovingly, A. H. Lewis,” was, on the whole, comforting. It was good to know that at heart she took a sympathetic view of my situation. But what a bitter disappointment that the Votaws should take the opposite attitude!

_142_

Then under date of October 18th, having received Miss Harding’s letter, sent the 16th, I wrote her again, sending her a carbon copy of a letter which I had written to the Votaws, having been inspired to do so by the following incident:

Upon receipt of the letter from Miss Harding which I have quoted above, I determined that I ought now to go directly to the Votaws in Washington and discuss the matter with them. After all, Mr. Votaw, whom Miss Harding had particularly cited as wishing to discredit my story, had probably got only a smattering of it from Daisy, or through his wife second-hand, and I felt a first-hand knowledge might bring him to a clearer understanding of the truth of the matter and a fairer viewpoint concerning the obligation of the Harding family to Elizabeth Ann.

My mother had not as yet arrived from Ohio with the baby, and I phoned the Votaws, requesting them to allow me to come to Washington for an interview. Mr. Votaw answered my call. I told him I wished to come down that week-end to see them, and would arrange a time that would suit their convenience. I spoke very kindly and the telephonic service was excellent, for I heard his “hello” very distinctly.

Therefore you may imagine my hurt when he replied, in the same tone of voice I remembered so unpleasantly, that they had company and could not see me. I assured him that I would take only a little of their time, even inviting him to come with Mrs. Votaw to the hotel where I would take a room for the day in order that we might have sufficient privacy.

“But I tell you we’ve got company!” he shouted over the phone, “my brother whom I have not seen for two years is here and we can’t see you!”

It seemed inexplicable to me that a matter which affected his brother-in-law, Mr. Harding, whom he professed to love so dearly, could be relatively unimportant even though he had not seen his own brother for _twenty_ years. But I saw no occasion for arguing.

“Oh, very well, Mr. Votaw,” I replied quietly, “if you don’t care to see me, it is all right.”

“I didn’t say we didn’t want to see you!” he bawled back at me, “but we can’t now.” And he rang off before I could answer him.

I wondered just what Warren Harding would have said could he have “listened in” on that conversation, and with the feeling I have had right along that Mr. Harding _has known_ everything I have tried to do to right the situation, it is very likely that he _did_ listen in. I remembered how Mr. Harding used to remark when I inquired who had answered the phone at times when I called him at his office in the Senate Building after I had arrived in Washington for a visit, “Oh, that was Heber Votaw. He hangs around the office a great deal.” And I knew of Mr. Votaw’s appointment as superintendent of the prison work, received at his brother-in-law’s hands, and marvelled how he could treat with such unkindness the woman who he must have realized meant a very great deal to Warren Harding, who was the father of her child.

The following letter from me to the Votaws is quoted in full, and a carbon copy of this letter went to Daisy Harding:

October 18th, 1925.

DEAR MR. AND MRS. VOTAW:

I did not know until comparatively recently that Miss Harding had told Mrs. Votaw the strange story I went to Ohio last June especially to reveal to her. Nor did I know that Mrs. Votaw in turn had repeated the story to her husband until I received a letter from Miss Harding on Friday which gave me a clue to the attitude you both have taken. Had I been aware of your knowledge, I would, with the characteristic directness I have acquired the past few years from being obliged to take situations in hand, have communicated with you long since. I have found that when I set my mind definitely to a given task or duty, the thing is to accomplish it as speedily as possible. I am therefore only sorry that I must write you at this time when I have much less leisure than I enjoyed the latter part of August or during the entire month of September.

Because of an impression I gained from my talk with Miss Harding in June, I judged that she preferred that I withhold from my mother and Elizabeth the knowledge that I had approached her, and, realizing because my mother and Elizabeth Ann would be here next Tuesday, that today was perhaps the most opportune time for me to go, I was prepared to drop everything else in my desire to see and talk with you people. I had had a letter from Mrs. Votaw some time ago, in which she said she had been and was ill, and it occurred to me that very possibly I should talk with Mr. Votaw anyway, inasmuch as Miss Harding’s latest letter indicated that it was he who felt so bitterly resentful about the whole matter. However, I can readily understand how he might be unwilling to give up a visit with his brother, even to sparing an hour and a half or so, and I should not have urged my coming. I was so strongly impelled, because of certain intuitive feelings on my own part, to offer at least to make it possible for you both to question me concerning anything you did not understand and to tell me frankly whether or not you cared to help me to help Elizabeth Ann.

Mind, I am seeking your help only through suggestion. I am too proud, for one thing, and I see no ultimate gain, for another, in accepting help from any source that is not freely and gladly given. I am confident, moreover, that Elizabeth Ann will develop enough of that charitable understanding and magnanimity which so strongly characterized her dear father, that her own high regard and love for him would in no wise be lessened by the mere fact that some of his family could not find it in their hearts to reconcile their love for him with a material manifestation thereof.

I cannot but feel that deep in Mrs. Votaw’s heart she has nothing but charity for the man who, with me, has done a thing which devolves a very, very grave responsibility upon those courageous enough to recognize and assume it. I am sure that in her immediate family there was enough of intimate knowledge concerning the unhappy atmosphere in which her brother lived for so many years (and I speak only those things which have come from him who experienced them), not to begrudge him at least _some_ of the happiness to which all men are rightly entitled. And the expression of my love for him would, in my opinion, have been insincere and incomplete in the extreme had I denied him the little of joy, respite and comfort it was in my power to give, and which, through another’s unfortunate nature and unnecessary selfishness he had never received in full measure at home. I think there is no place in the Bible where such love as ours would go unsanctioned or unblessed, for it was God-given.

However, I cannot and do not expect Mr. Votaw, knowing me as slightly as he does, and loving his brother-in-law as devotedly as I am sure he does, to accept, without a sense of mingled incredulity and resentment, facts he prone would disbelieve and discredit and of which he has had no direct knowledge on which to base any belief at all. Of course, it seems a terrible shock to both of you! And it is but human nature for you to feel more or less justified in mentally refraining from attaching any sense of responsibility where you were not directly consulted or concerned. But in fairness to Elizabeth Ann, I made up my mind that there did exist a moral obligation to a brother’s child and that it was doing the baby an injustice if I did not give her father’s family an opportunity to help her, and in the hope of correcting an attitude of unfairness toward me, and in turn toward Elizabeth Ann, I am writing you.

Living as I have for nearly seven years with this growingly tremendous problem, and realizing, especially since two years ago August, the futility of attempting to solve it by myself to utmost satisfaction, it has transcended anything and everything else in importance in my mind and I have been exhausting every effort to the end that it be solved in the best--and that means the right--way. Very naturally, my feeling about the whole matter is that it is admittedly paramountly and imperatively my own immediate problem and one to be postponed not one minute longer if I would do for Elizabeth Ann what her father wished so earnestly to be done. To go back over the past and regret now his own inability to do the thing he planned--to have her for his own--is futile and does not help a whit. Nor will it do Elizabeth Ann any good for me to simply sit down now and make my life one long lamentation, or indulge in sad retrospection, no matter how deeply I feel or suffer. One thing I remember so well I’ve heard dozens of times from her father was, “Remember, no recriminations, dearie, ever!” And I feel as free today from them as I did when he smiled and shook his finger at me.

There is a thing I must say: I would not for a moment even try to convince Mr. Votaw of something he deliberately wished to discredit. But if you both will but look at the expressions on Elizabeth Ann’s face in these snapshots, there certainly cannot remain the vestige of a doubt in your minds as to whom she belongs. (By the way, will you please keep these safely or send them back--the one with the typewritten word was sent to her father in 1921 and returned to me and I prize all very highly.) Even when a mere baby she was he all over. But it is not my idea to prove what could so irrefutably be proven, but which I would not dream of bothering to prove to anyone in this world. I come of a family which was, if nothing else, at least reasonably truthful--and if that were not enough, I can tell you truly that there existed no man in the world in those glorious days of 1917 who could have so completely possessed me out of marriage. For, after all, my mother is perhaps as conventional as any woman in the world and I was brought up to think just as most people think about conventions.

Furthermore, my mother, on the other hand, feels just as strongly resentful as you, and her feeling is that I was incapable of judging right from wrong when appealed to by a man thirty years my senior and with whom I had been in love since a mere child--and she may feel this way about it all her life, no matter whether I attempt to convince her that I knew exactly what I was doing and did it of my very own free will and accord. So you see you are not alone in your resentment. And, after his death, it was my really innate desire to _be_ conventional which led to the very unfortunate and unhappy marriage I am now trying to put behind me. To be conventional and to have Elizabeth Ann in a conventional way! A hopeless mess I made of it, didn’t I? Which has proven to me that if I would do the right thing for Elizabeth Ann I would not try to cut corners again.

Miss Harding’s letter also contained an allusion to my having been indiscreetly confiding with my affairs. I will admit that I told Captain Neilsen about Elizabeth Ann and about her father--but when one marries there are few things one keeps from one’s husband--and the very fact that Mrs. Votaw confided the story, told her by her sister, to _her_ husband bears me out in this, does it not? Moreover, so far as Mr. G. is concerned, it is assuming more than was ever said by me to feel that he has been my confidant beyond his legal advice and friendly counsel concerning my matrimonial difficulties, and so far as I can see you have jumped pretty far in concluding that I have told Mr. G. about Elizabeth Ann’s father. He does know, however, that I have a child, and he has been more helpful than I can say in endeavoring to make me see my way clear in this affair with the Captain. The enclosed document--which you may or may not have seen--is worded as carefully as could possibly have been done. The word “child” has been omitted, if you will observe, and only the court testimony (which the judge readily consented to have sealed and opened only upon order of the court) contains statements to the effect that my “ward” was a child. Even so, Mr. G.’s questions and my answers were so guarded that no one could take exception to the testimony.

You must understand, I have been practically “brought up” for the past eight years on the necessity for secrecy and I personally feel very sure that my confidings have been to those whom I can trust implicitly with my secret--even to the Captain. Can you ask for greater proof of this than the campaign of 1920? And you should also remember that no one makes a statement concerning a man of such standing as Elizabeth Ann’s father without the surest evidence in hand that he can _prove_ his accusations. And I feel that the time has long passed when anyone would or could derive any gain from divulging a story of this character, even if he had all the evidence in the world.

I did not mean to go so into discussion, because I feel if you are interested in knowing details you will apprise me of that fact and invite me to come to Washington. I can still come--and even would do so on a week day if it better suits your own convenience. However, I did want to tell you these few things and they are as well written as spoken.

I have had a very sweet letter from Miss Harding, in which she assured me she wished to take care of Elizabeth Ann’s kindergarten expenses and I am deeply appreciative and happy for my darling’s sake. And I know one thing, and that is that no matter what Mrs. Votaw may say or do, I know she has a whole heap of her brother in her and some day she may see that for herself. And I know, too, that Mr. Votaw could not love Elizabeth Ann’s father and not come to see that mere man-made convention is not always the only law that gives man the right to love. There is a higher and a diviner law.

Lots of loving thoughts to both of you.

NAN BRITTON NEILSEN

_143_

I had readily perceived from Miss Harding’s letter, received October 16th, 1925, that the line of thinking pursued by the Votaws as well as by herself led straight to the fear of exposure, and though, for their sake, I was ready to further guard their brother’s and my secret from the world, in my heart I rated my child’s future and my own sense of justice for her far above the continued consideration of protection of the Harding name. _It lay with them and their sense of right toward Elizabeth Ann whether or not the story they wished to conceal were further revealed._ I had assured them of my co-operation, and, except they fail me, I would continue to suffer the fictional explanations which surrounded the identity of Elizabeth Ann’s father. But it seemed to me that our child, Warren Harding’s and mine, possessed enough of distinction in being the only child of the 29th President of the United States, and I enough of pride in having been loved by Warren Harding and having borne him a child, to warrant an open expression of indifference if they in turn did not as dearly value the protection of their own family name. And the knowledge of their apparent lack of appreciation of my efforts up to that time filled me with hurt and righteous indignation. If, in the process of being obliged to approach personally friends of Mr. Harding, the story leaked out, I would know that I had done everything in _my_ power to keep it intact, and that only the refusal of Warren Harding’s own brothers and sisters to sponsor the cause of his own daughter had precipitated such revelation. _I would sacrifice myself, in dedicating every remaining shred of nervous energy to protective efforts in their behalf, if they would make possible to me the possession of my child._ But I would not forever tolerate unjust criticism of past conduct either on my part or on the part of their brother any more than I would countenance the figurative drawing away of skirts from the child who had every right in the world to tug at them in her rightful demand, through the voice of her mother, for recognition and equity.

_144_

In a letter received by me from Daisy Harding (Mrs. Lewis), under date of October 20th, a post office order in the amount of $110 was enclosed. Miss Harding wrote in this letter, in asking me to immediately destroy her letters to me, “perhaps it is best to destroy them at the Club.” In this I recognized a conscience which whispered the right thing, but a human mind which overruled and dangled the fear of exposure before frightened eyes. A wave of pity swept over me. It seemed to me that the _values_ of the real things in life were being placed only upon their shadows, not upon the things themselves. What if the whole _world_ knew? What if a nation knew that it elected a President who was so much a man that he craved to be a father? Where was the infamy of such an exalted desire? Would not every man, woman and child enshrine him in their hearts as a martyr, a man who had sought to know the real things but who was cruelly deprived of his birthright as a lover and a father, in the fullest sense of the word? And who but would love him the more because he had suffered in silence, as he said, harassment and years of weary unhappiness at the hands of her, who, a tragedy in herself, had also been the victim of a wrong placement of life’s values. And where the reflection of shame upon Warren Harding’s family simply because a child had been born to us, a daughter had been given to me, to help fill my life during his veritable incarceration in the White House, and afterwards--after he had met death as a result of having literally used up _his_ life for his country!

I did _not_ promise to destroy Daisy Harding’s letters. These letters, with carbon copies of my own to her and to the Votaws, I was saving for my daughter. Through them she could read the story of my approach to her father’s family, and, whatever the result of that approach, she was entitled to read of it first-hand.

The next letter I wrote to Miss Harding was one dated November 2nd, Mr. Harding’s birthday. His birthday fell one week to the day before mine, and he and I, though he was thirty years older, had always spoken of him as being just one week my senior. I wrote only to tell Miss Harding how “memories crowded each hour of the day,” and made no allusion to Elizabeth Ann’s matter except to tell her that I had heard nothing from the Votaws in answer to my lengthy letter to them.

Her answer was mailed under date of November 5th, 1925, and, aside from comments about the manner in which that particular birthday of her brother’s had been commemorated in Marion, she wrote, “I realize, my dear, how hard your lot, and the tremendous burdens you must be carrying. Pay no attention to the attitude of sister and husband. The situation is a difficult one and will come out all right, I’m sure. In the meanwhile, remember you have my love and sympathy....” Again she promised help, this time for Elizabeth Ann’s clothes. And her expressions of solicitude for my own health, in cautioning me not to overwork in my playwriting course at Barnard, touched me deeply. “Lovingly yours, A. V. H. Lewis,” her letter was signed.

How dear she was, I thought. No wonder I chose her when I was in high school as my ideal American woman, for she was a very great deal like her brother Warren, who would always be my ideal American man. Much like him in sympathies and instincts.

_145_

In the crowded three-room apartment where my mother, my baby and I were living, I was finding it all too difficult to devote as much quiet time to my course in playwriting as it required. It seemed to me far more desirable to retire early with my little girl and visit with her until she fell asleep on my arm. I was grateful for the attitude of Daisy Harding, but the attitude the Votaws had assumed made me heartsick, and when a realization of what it would all mean to Elizabeth Ann swept over me, I wanted literally to catch her up close to me and close her eyes and mine to life’s cruelties.

The mental misery I suffered must surely have been reflected by Elizabeth Ann, for she was oftentimes restless and unnaturally apprehensive for a child of six. I remember one evening when she gave me a great shock, so really did she mirror my own mood. My mother had gone away that evening and Elizabeth Ann was in my bed awaiting me and the bedtime story I had promised to tell her. But when I came in from the bathroom I found her crying. “Why, whatever is the matter with my precious darling?” I asked her, taking her in my arms and kissing her wet cheek. “Oh, Nan, dear,” she sobbed, and her voice grew hysterical, “I was just thinking about our poor dear Mr. Harding!” I had not mentioned Mr. Harding or any of the Hardings that evening, and it seemed an uncanny thing to have her express the heartache I was experiencing those days from contemplation of the attitude the Votaws had assumed. It has often seemed to me that Mr. Harding has even spoken to me through our daughter, and, as I took her in my arms that night and talked to her, it was not to depart from the subject of Mr. Harding but rather to promise him, through my words to her, that she and I would not forsake him. As Elizabeth Ann herself put it, “We’ll always love our dear Mr. Harding, won’t we, Nan?”

Who can say that he was not looking down upon his two loved ones, hovering near us in spirit, urging me to the exhaustion of every effort to establish his daughter’s rights, and deploring with all his heart the struggle I was having to come into my own, to have our child?

But I could not have survived in an atmosphere of constant conscious worry, and there were days when the full buoyancy and optimism of my true self would assert themselves, and I would reflect gratefully and lovingly upon Miss Harding’s prophecy that things would “come out all right,” and dream of the day when my child would be welcomed into the hearts of those whom she should know as her own people.

When friends commented upon my taking Elizabeth Ann and my mother for the winter, I reminded them that I was alone in New York, awaiting the final decree of my marriage annulment, that my sister Elizabeth and her husband were busy teaching, and that it was the most natural thing in the world for me to want company.

_146_

Soon after receiving the November 5th, 1925, letter from Daisy Harding, I received from her a draft for $65 for Elizabeth Ann’s clothes. She wrote a very hurried note, signed, “Lots of love, A. V. H.”

It was a delight to purchase winter things for Warren Harding’s and my child with money received from Warren Harding’s sister. It seemed so _right_. I retained all of the receipts for the purchase of these things in order to show them to Miss Harding if she should ever care to see them, and indeed the purchases ran over the $65 sent. Elizabeth Ann had no winter things to speak of, even though my sister Elizabeth had made her some pretty summer dresses. But I had to buy her winter things, from underwear to a coat, hat, galoshes and gloves. She looked adorable in them.

Under date of November 12, 1925, I replied to Miss Harding’s brief note enclosing the check, and I wrote, “It makes me feel _so good inside_--the knowledge that it comes from you. And I love you. You know that.” I also said that I felt sure it was Mr. Votaw who refused to understand my situation--and not Mrs. Votaw. Miss Harding had said she might be coming to New York soon and I wrote that it would be fine if she and Mrs. Votaw could come to New York to see me. On December 1st I wrote again to Miss Harding after I had finished the shopping for Elizabeth Ann, and I told her how very pretty the baby looked in her new things. She was growing out of her babyhood, however, and was beginning to shoot up, and I observed daily how much like Mr. Harding she was, with the Harding olive complexion, the Harding eyes, and the height which belonged to me as well as to her father.

_147_

Under date of December 9th I was obliged to write to Tim Slade and tell him that a circumstance had arisen which would make it impossible for me to count upon some money I had hitherto been counting upon, to supplement any amounts I might receive from the Harding family or from my salary. This supplemental fund was promised by a friend who at the last minute failed me, and it was going to be even more difficult for me to manage financially from then on. I had my rent paid up to January 10, 1926, and this being December 9, 1925, I had a month’s leeway before having to raise the rent of the furnished apartment which we occupied. Tim had been in New York on December 8th, the previous day in fact, but I had not known then of the emergency.

I received no answer from Tim to that letter and was surprised that I did not. On the date on which I mailed the letter to Tim I received a letter from Daisy Harding. I had written her quite at length about Elizabeth Ann’s school work, and how proud I was of the way in which she was progressing day by day under my mother’s excellent tutelage. Miss Harding sent the rest of Elizabeth Ann’s kindergarten money, and $15 had been added to the amount, which, she wrote, would be a little Christmas gift for Elizabeth Ann and me.

She wrote that she was going to Battle Creek, after which she would join her husband in the South. This letter too had an affectionate ending, “Lots of love ..., A. V. H. L.” There was nothing in the letter that seemed to require immediate response. However, I answered it on December 11th. I wrote of Tim Slade’s having been over again to New York and that I felt sure he was the genuine person I had up to this time judged him to be.

It was upon the occasion of a trip of Tim’s made in early January, about the twelfth, that he gave me the first money I had ever received from him, in amount $100. It was accepted by me in the strictest business sense. I sent him a promissory note for the amount, at his own suggestion, dating it January 14th, and promising to repay him in three months. I told him at the time that it did not look as though the Hardings were willing to do anything in a _substantial_ way to help me to keep Elizabeth Ann, but that I was still “hoping against hope.” I told him about Daisy Harding’s assurance that she would help me as soon as she realized anything on her Florida property. I explained to Tim that I was sure she didn’t have any cash or she would have helped me that winter even more than the $175 or so she had already sent. I frankly expressed my resentment at the attitude the Votaws had assumed, but Tim said it was no more than he had expected. He repeated what he had said long before, “They don’t want to part with their money.” But I could not believe that this was the reason they were keeping aloof, and insisted it must be because they did not believe my story. And that hurt me more than their unwillingness to help financially.

Tim Slade is not the type of man one would expect to be wordily sympathetic, but his apparent “hard-heartedness” was construed by me always as merely an unrelenting attitude toward the members of the Harding family who had received Mr. Harding’s generous legacies, and who guarded this money to the point of refusing to share it with their brother’s own child.

So when Tim came over to New York, very often he would say, “Well, I talked with Hoke Donithen,” (a lawyer from Marion who, Tim said, benefitted largely from the Harding administration) “and I put the fear of the Lord into _him_!” And despite my seriousness, Tim’s boyish enthusiasm and apparent sponsorship of my cause would make me smile. But in the case of Mr. Donithen, as in the case of Mr. Crissinger, Tim evidently failed, for nothing seemed to be developing from his efforts.

When I confided to him that I would need help now more than I had in the past, inasmuch as the loan upon which I had depended had failed me, he asked me if $100 a month extra would enable me to keep Elizabeth Ann and mother with me as I had planned to do. I assured him it would be a very great help and I thought would enable me to carry out my plans. However, though he promised to send me $100 each month, as a loan, he did not do so, and I have written Tim several times for help when I have not heard from him at all, not even an acknowledgement of my letters to him. But he had said to me, “Whenever you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I’m broke.”

_148_

On January 27th, 1926, I wrote Mr. Votaw. I was under a nervous strain which had superimposed other ailments, and was growing apprehensive of what the Votaws might do to take advantage of my situation so frankly and truthfully laid before them. It was all I could do to keep up my work at the Club, and at the end of the first semester at Barnard I had dropped the playwriting course I had started. It was too difficult for me to do my school work at night and my day work at the Club, and besides bear up under the constant worry about finances.

My letter follows:

“MY DEAR MR. VOTAW:

The telephone operator here tells me that a man came in this noon and asked for me. He answered your description, and I am therefore writing to ask if it were you. If so, and you wish to get in touch with me, will you be good enough to call me at Bryant 4246? The gentleman in question for some reason asked if I were in and then contrarily assured the telephone operator that he did not wish to disturb me. As I do not like that sort of thing occurring here at the Club, I thought I could at least let you know where I was in case it had been you who called me.

The address is as above and my home address is 609 West 114th Street. The home telephone number is Cathedral 5770. I think I gave you this information in my letter last fall.

Very truly yours, NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”

I sent Tim Slade a copy of this letter, relating the circumstances, and telling him how nervous every little thing made me.

After I had mailed this letter to Mr. Votaw, I went home and thought the whole matter over carefully that night in bed, and the following day I wrote _Mrs._ Votaw a brief note, telling her I felt that if anyone came to New York to talk with me it would more logically be she than Mr. Votaw. I apprised Tim Slade of what I had written, keeping him thus in touch with my own steps.

The following day I received an answer to my letter to Mr. Votaw. It reached me the same day it was dated, January 29th, and was as strictly formal as mine to him had been. Very briefly Mr. Votaw advised me that he had not called for me at The Town Hall Club on the date my letter was written, “_nor at any other time_.” The italicized words were heavily underscored on the typewriter by Mr. Votaw, who, I assumed, had himself typed the letter to me. He went on to say that he had not tried to reach me at my home either, and informed me that he had not been in New York City at all for more than two years.

That was all the letter contained. Never an allusion to the matter which I deemed of as great moment to the Hardings and Votaws as to myself as the mother of their brother’s and my child. In fact, the letter from Mr. Votaw to me was merely one of complete negation and indifference.

Simply to read this note from Mr. Votaw made me ill all over and brought on a state of high nervous tension which usually possessed me when I came face to face with some new obstacle in my fight for Elizabeth Ann’s rights. I have never, as a matter of fact, solved the puzzle of who the strange man was who called in such a mysterious manner and asked if a “Mrs. Nan Britton Neilsen worked there,” and then disclaimed a desire to see her. The telephone operator’s description fitted Mr. Votaw, or perhaps George Christian.

The possibility that I might be “shadowed” simply because I possessed a secret which many people would be interested in protecting from public dissemination, filled me with a new fear--a fear hitherto unfelt: that of possible desire to destroy me and thus destroy my secret. I was the only living person who knew the intimate details of our love-story, Warren Harding’s and mine. And if such a thing should happen to me, my baby girl would lose her birthright, except as she would be told of it by my sister, who really knew pitifully little of the details. The mere thought of such a happening struck terror to my heart amounting to partial dementia at times when fatigue and despondency clutched at me, and I was becoming weaker and weaker physically as a result of my nightmarish thoughts. I _must_ be strong. I _must_ fight for Elizabeth Ann’s sake! I _must_ shake off this state of weakness which was dragging me down and down, and down.

_149_

Perhaps it was this crazed state of mentality which led me to construe Mr. Votaw’s letter, with its heavy underscoring, as a direct contumelious insinuation toward Elizabeth Ann and my claims for her, and perhaps it was what I thought might be my last desperate effort in her behalf which led me to write with the spirit which dominates the following letter:

MY DEAR MR. VOTAW:

Thank you for your prompt reply.

It _was_ difficult for me to believe that you would call and then for any reason be afraid to talk with me. But the idea of a call would be, in my estimation, a very excellent one. In fact, I cannot conceive of a brother’s or sister’s love taking the course yours and Mrs. Votaw’s has taken. I am frank to say that no matter what anyone might say about the lack of conventionality on my part or on that of Mr. Harding, they would never, never condone complete ignoring of responsibility to his own child. Nor do I mean that such shall be the case.

I was quite sincere when I wrote to you last fall that I should exhaust every effort to make you people--and that means all of the brothers and sisters of Mr. Harding--see your responsibility to Elizabeth Ann, and I mean to do so.

But I am and have been waiting for you to approach me, and I shall expect you to do so. I have been under a terrific financial strain and am about through trying to carry on alone. I need help and it should be provided. The very last time I talked with Mr. Harding in the White House he gave me every assurance that I should have ample financial assistance throughout Elizabeth Ann’s life, and, with his death, I am looking to his family to carry out his promises. And I do not mean to have her so ignored. It is highly inconceivable that you should adopt such attitude.

I shall expect to see one of you or both very soon, and I can assure you it would be gratifying to have the opportunity to tell you both things it would interest you to hear. If I do not hear from you to this effect, I shall proceed to go about in other ways to justify Elizabeth Ann’s claim to being cared for by her father’s people.

You know as well as I that I am asking nothing but a square deal for Elizabeth Ann and I shall certainly tolerate no conduct on your part which smacks of being ignored by you. If I cannot settle amicably a matter which should long ago have been settled without making it the basis for a life-long enmity and possible unpleasantness for all of us, then I shall be obliged in fairness to Mr. Harding’s child to fight for what is her due. And you cannot look me square in the eyes and deny that I am asking aught but justice.

I want to add that you are at perfect liberty to show this letter to whomever you like, knowing that I have nothing to conceal from any member of the Harding family. And I am ready to face the entire group at any time you say. I can offer to do no more.

Very sincerely, NAN BRITTON NEILSEN”

I must say that this letter conveyed a fighting spirit which my broken heart and body belied, but it was the spirit which has guided me in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles to seek the justice which is due Elizabeth Ann, and to justify my own claim to her as her mother. I wrote Tim Slade on January 30th, telling him of the contents of Mr. Votaw’s letter. Then I waited a few days for possible developments.

_150_

One evening I went home tired, soul and body. Elizabeth Ann met me as usual at the door. Simultaneously with my ringing the doorbell I could hear her voice, high-pitched in pleasurable excitement, “It’s Nan, muz!” she exclaimed to mother, and came rushing to open the door to greet me. Realizing keenly my dire financial status, daring not to divulge to my mother how frantic I was, knowing she would immediately have insisted upon taking some kind of position which would make it necessary for me to again ask my sister Elizabeth to come East and get the baby, I felt particularly unable to match my daughter’s playful mood. She wanted to recite a piece for me! Would I please sit down and listen?

Of course I would! I forced the gaiety I could not feel. It was all a familiar procedure, this reciting business, and I sank acquiescently into the nearest chair. Elizabeth Ann disappeared into the bedroom, and returned with a grown-up scarf around her shoulders to announce, as always, “Ladies, the princess will speak for you!” This, too, was familiar, for she had so self-styled herself very early, and somehow it seemed to me a most appropriate appellative considering the birth distinction that was hers.

“The princess will speak--which one shall I speak, muz?” she turned to inquire of my mother who was busy preparing dinner at the kitchenette, which occupied one side of the living-room. Mother whispered into her ear and Elizabeth Ann’s face lighted with the joy she could not conceal in being encouraged to surprise me with her newest dramatic acquisition.

The Harding smile was directed at me, the “audience”; the Harding eyes twinkled mischievously; the Harding bow was eloquently appealing; and the voice of the Harding child fell sweetly upon the ears of her mother:

“A _bear_--how_ev_er hard he _tries_, Grows _tub_by without exercise. _My_ teddy bear is _short_ and _fat_-- Which is not to be _won_dered at! He gets what exercise he _can_ From falling off the ottoman, But gen-er-al-ly seems to lack The energy to scramble _back_....”

The “piece” (by A. A. Milne) went on and on, and it was all the “audience” could do to keep from rising to its feet and embracing the speaker in her adorableness. But the “audience” was too well-trained. The princess, like the princess’s father before her, demanded strictest attention from an audience, and this audience knew that the princess’s kisses were given only upon completion of oratorical delivery.

Never did a queen more completely rule the hearts of her subjects than did this diminutive princess her “audience,” whose heart she had always possessed! Never did the father of this princess move his myriad listeners to greater tranquillity of heart! The princess restored her mother’s hopefulness and strength of purpose.

That night I prayed anew that her father’s people would help me to keep my darling. Would my prayer be answered?

_151_

Under date of February 5th, 1926, my rent falling due on the coming 10th, I wired Daisy Harding as follows:

“MRS. RALPH LEWIS, Vernon Heights Boulevard, Marion, Ohio.

SIMPLY MUST HAVE TWO HUNDRED BY SATURDAY SIXTH TO MEET OVERDUE BILLS. HAVE WRITTEN OTHER FOLKS TO NO AVAIL. IMPOSSIBLE CARRY ON PRESENT REGIME UNLESS MORE SUBSTANTIALLY ASSISTED. MUST HAVE HELP IMMEDIATELY. LETTER FOLLOWS.

NAN.”

The following letter was written that evening:

“DEAREST MISS HARDING:

I wired you this morning for $200 and hope to have the answer tomorrow by wire. If I do not hear, I shall simply have to take very definite steps to endeavor to establish Elizabeth Ann’s claim to some attention from the Hardings as to their responsibility toward her. And I am determined to do so.

Knowing how kindly you have been disposed to feel toward the whole situation, and loving you as much as I do, I cannot help believing you will do everything in your power to bring about the proper sense of responsibility on the part of every one of the Hardings. However, I have been treated so shabbily by the Votaws that I cannot afford longer to allow sentiment to influence me.

The present regime is impossible without more help and it seems to me I am looking to the right source for it. I want Elizabeth Ann with me--in the winter time at least--but I cannot have her and keep up the expenses of an apartment without outside help. She should have an income of her own independent of anyone else, even her mother. It is her due as Warren G. Harding’s child, and I am prepared to fight for it for her. I have lost a great deal of my pride in coming to you folks, and the Votaws’ attitude has shown me that they prefer unpleasantness to a very proper acknowledgement of their--and all the Hardings’--obligations.

Mind, it is not as though I were asking anything for my own self--I want only that which is due Elizabeth Ann--an income which will enable me to have her with me as much and as often as I want. If I were alone, I can assure every one of you that I could keep myself. But in having Elizabeth Ann with me, I must go into a great deal of extra expense. I pay $130 a month for a very simple, furnished apartment, in a nice neighborhood. I give my mother $25 a week to feed her and the baby. You have taken care of her kindergarten, and you have also sent me $65 for her winter clothes, receipts for the purchase of which clothing I have kept, and the amount is, I might say, in excess of the $65, inasmuch as she had no winter clothing when she came to me, with the exception of an old coat (which I bought her last winter) and a couple of dresses. She needs another pair of shoes and another dress at this very moment. She is as easy on clothes as any other child, which means that she is normally hard on them.

In addition to the above, I have my own clothes to buy and I have to pay my mother something. I will admit, when we started out last fall, I included in the $25 paid mother for food the small amount paid her as a tutor, but I found that she could not even buy her stockings on that, and it has had to be increased. And I need not tell you of all the other current expenses one incurs living in a New York apartment.

I give you the foregoing that you may know what I have been up against. Last fall I had assistance from a friend of mine, but that assistance is forthcoming no longer, for the reason that it involved a point of honor with me and I refused to take it after the first of the year. Therefore, I have been forced since then to go into debt in every direction to keep going at all. I have drawn ahead of my salary and I have borrowed. I do not feel under obligations to explain this, but am doing so that you may know how I have tried to carry on by myself before appealing again to the Hardings.

Two weeks or so ago I had a couple of telephone calls I could not account for--three, to be exact--because I was out when they came, or else when I _was_ in, the party would be gone when I answered the phone. Then last week a man came in, in person, and asked the telephone operator if I worked there. Upon receiving a reply in the affirmative, when she started to ring my telephone, he hastily and mysteriously assured her that he did not wish to disturb me at that moment and hurried out. Of course, I have been and am so busy here, with so many details on my mind, both of business and of my home, that I cannot have that sort of thing occurring. The operators description of him answered that of Mr. Votaw (or Mr. Christian), and I concluded it must have been he. Thereupon, I wrote to ask and received a reply which gave me a clue to Mr. Votaw’s attitude toward me. I have written them--addressing the letter to Mr. Votaw, because I think it is he and not Mrs. Votaw who is responsible for the Votaw attitude--and I have not heard from them.

Now, without wasting any more time in explanations, I want to say that I am not at all unconscious of the fact that any publicity in connection with this would reflect upon the character and reputation of Mr. Harding, notwithstanding the fact that I personally am not at all ashamed of a single step I have ever taken. Nevertheless, there are possibilities of its becoming an international scandal--and I am sure you will agree that we none of us want that. Nor do I mean that it shall be, except as it might creep out in my approaching Mr. Harding’s friends for assistance which should be forthcoming from his own family. But I am sure that some of the friends he had during his lifetime would treat his child with more consideration than some of his closest relatives have treated her. And I am not afraid to find out.

I have been patient, I have been decent, I have been fair--but it seems it doesn’t pay. It does not seem possible that Mr. Harding could have been the brother of anyone who could fail to see his viewpoint so impassionately. Bless him! I am afraid he would retract a good many of the things he has said to me if he could but see how things are going now! And maybe he does see. Sometimes I feel his presence very strongly--and I see his smile and hear his precious voice--and I am constrained to feel only charity for those who have shown anything but charity toward me.

[Illustration: A spelling exercise of the President’s daughter--1927]

But that is sentiment. And even he would dispense with sentiment if he had received such treatment as his child has--I very well remember his face when he told me the very last time I was in the White House that he would adopt Elizabeth Ann. I said, “Oh, but sweetheart, you couldn’t! What would people say?” And he answered, “That’s _my_ affair, and I promise you it will be done.” But that was when he felt Mrs. Harding would pass on--and she outlived him. Nevertheless, I was _always_, at all times, assured of ample financial assistance for Elizabeth Ann, and that is what I want now. And, like him, this is _my_ affair, and it must be dealt with by me for my child.

I am very tired tonight, having had a very strenuous day. It is eight o’clock right now and I have not eaten my dinner. It is difficult for me to write letters and escape observing eyes, over my shoulder here at my desk, etc., and therefore I stay after hours to write them.

Very likely you have received all of the invitations from the Club for their various entertainments and you may have some idea of what it means to hold a position such as this and have a constant terrific worry about where rent and food will come from. Miss Breed was away ill for three weeks the first part of the year, the busiest time the Club has ever known--and I was in charge. The Dinner of the 15th and the Supper-Dance of the 29th were both in my charge during her absence and the work involved was so heavy that upon her return I was forced to seek absolute quiet and rest. I went up to the Valeria Home, an endowed home for “tired people,” and I stayed there a week. Of course my expenses went on here just the same.

Now, in conclusion, I wish to say that I am ready to do everything in my power to see that E. A. is fairly treated. I appreciate more than I can tell you what you have done--and you know I am far from being one to impose unfairly upon the Hardings. But I do know that Mr. Harding died without having, to our knowledge thus far, left Elizabeth Ann cared for financially. I also know very definitely that none of the Hardings is any more entitled to a share of his consideration in this respect than she is, and I also know that it is in the possession of those to whom it was left. Therefore, I very respectfully, but very firmly, ask that you get together--once more--and combine your efforts and your funds into one whole, and that it be deposited in some bank so that Elizabeth Ann will have a substantial sum monthly from which her expenses may be met. I have some ideas about what would be fair in this respect and I shall expect them to be regarded by you. I am Elizabeth Ann’s legal guardian, also, and expect to be consulted as such. My legal guardianship is, in point of fact, the last word so far as directing her welfare, education, etc., is concerned, for it goes beyond any authority her foster parents have.

I would suggest that you and Dr. Tryon Harding, together with Mrs. Votaw, and, if possible, Mrs. Tryon Harding (who has children of her own), get together at once, and I shall be very glad to come West to consult with you if you so desire.

Please know that I am appreciative of everything you have done and may do--and that I do deplore any but the friendliest feeling in this matter--but I shall not shirk my own responsibility toward Elizabeth Ann.

Love to you.

Most sincerely, NAN BRITTON”

Under the same date (February 5, 1926) I wrote Tim Slade and sent him a copy of the letter sent to Miss Harding. I have no notes to indicate that a copy went to the Votaws, and I do not think that I sent one to them, but I do think Miss Harding sent her original on to them.

_152_

That night I returned home late, having been at the Club writing the lengthy letter to Miss Harding, and I found a cheering answer from Miss Harding to my wire to her sent that morning early. She had been away from home for two weeks and my message had reached her the very hour of her return home. She would fulfill my request on Saturday! The following day I received another telegram from Miss Harding in which she stated that the money had been wired to the wrong address. Would I call the Postal Telegraph and trace the money? It was with a sense of relief I had not known for some time that I had the money traced by the telegraph office, and you may imagine my joy to find she had doubled the amount asked for by me. She had sent me $400! I wrote her immediately. I told her I was going to pay two months’ rent, which would be $260, and this I did, and have the cancelled voucher in my possession. I repaid $50 to one of the officers of the Club who had kindly advanced that amount to me, and $40 to the Club for overdrawn salary. That totalled $350, and left $50 for minor indebtednesses.

In my letter to Miss Harding I also inquired of her whether or not she felt I ought to write direct to Dr. Harding, her brother in Columbus. I had not known Dr. Harding and took it for granted that Miss Harding had informed him of the situation in hand. As for the Votaws, of them I wrote frankly. I would not have been my natural self had I not expressed the resentment I felt.

I also wrote the Votaws a short letter in an attempt to shame them after I had received the $400 from Daisy Harding, and I sent them a carbon of the letter of thanks which I had just written to Miss Harding. Not one of these various letters I sent the Votaws ever came back to me, so I assume they must have received them.

_153_

A letter received from Daisy Harding, written under date of February 10th, 1926, was the longest letter I had yet received from her and was in reply to my letter of February 5th. In this letter. Miss Harding went into detail about many things. She told me how her husband had recently learned the facts of my story for the first time from a man in Marion, who in turn had heard it from Tim Slade. Inasmuch as Tim had told me that he had spoken to Mr. Hoke Donithen, a Marion lawyer, while approaching supposedly sympathetic persons, I assumed it was he to whom Miss Harding referred. She wrote, “I was shocked beyond measure, because I didn’t want Ralph to know and have his faith destroyed, then I was alarmed for fear others might know of the same thing and the terrible damage it would do to you both in your home town....” She further wrote that she hoped and prayed it would not go farther.

Referring to the sharp letter sent to Mr. Votaw by me in reply to his brief note to me, Miss Harding mistakenly alludes to it as having been sent to her sister, Mrs. Votaw, and says, “ ... I got the letter you wrote Carolyn, and Nan, dear, I was ... horribly sad and depressed about it all. I knew you were desperate, but you are not using the right tactics....” She begged that I withhold the story from her other sister, Mrs. Charity Remsberg, in California. “... I want to spare her the shock I had when it was told to me. Furthermore, I don’t want her faith destroyed....”

Miss Harding frequently alluded to the “faith” members of her family would lose when they learned that their brother had been the father of a child. Of what real depth is any faith which can be destroyed by the mere revelation that another faith of highest quality has been maintained between a man and a woman? Webster defines faith as “firm belief or trust in a person....” I defy anyone to say that Warren Harding disqualified himself to be worthy of the faith reposed in him simply because of his fatherhood! What would diminish that faith? Watchful solicitude for the woman he loved above any other? Loving kindness in his material manifestations toward her and toward his child? Loyalty to his political party and to his country? Generosity toward his family? Who more nobly kept these faiths than Warren Gamaliel Harding?

Daisy Harding’s letter went on: “I want you to know, no matter what you think of either Mr. V. or the other brother, that there are no two finer, more honorable and just men living, and because of their love, devotion and loyalty to the one already gone, they are not going to believe anything against him until it can be absolutely proven....” How varied are the conceptions of love and loyalty! And who of us has reached immunity from sin and can judge what works _against_ his brother? Had the case been reversed, who more quickly would have come to the moral and financial rescue of another who needed help and mental sustaining than the very brother whose own child these two men hesitated to recognize? According to a newspaper clipping which I have pasted in my Harding book, President Harding’s very “hobby” was to help the “down and out.” The clipping reads, “Mankind needs encouragement and help. There is much suffering in the world and there is much heart-sickness....” Truly, the recognition of how greatly charity, forbearance, mercy, goodness, and all their kindred attributes work for the stature of the spirit of man was exemplified with pathetic beauty in the heart and life of Warren Gamaliel Harding.

Daisy Harding wrote me the details of the $90,000 brokerage matter she told me about in June of 1925. Then she went on: “Now then on top of that, your claim is put in. Do you wonder that the whole family are up in arms against a thing that is so hard to prove?...”

“_Hard to prove?_” Why, I had kept, with her brother, _the faith_! That very fidelity which her brother and I had shown toward each other; that faith which had protected the Harding name; that very brand of faith was responsible for the fact that _every love-letter, any one of which would have irrefutably proved my story, had been destroyed_. “But if convinced, they will be just,” she wrote. Yet the Votaws had denied me the interview which I knew would have enabled me to advance _sufficient_ proofs.

Poor Daisy Harding! Trying to be fair to me and just to her own family as she understood justice! “... you still have me who never fails a friend ... for the sake of the dear beloved, guard the secret, protect his name and everything will come out all right....”

In spite of the fact that I disagreed with a great deal that Miss Harding wrote, there was one paragraph which pleased me. She was leaving the following Sunday for Florida, and on her way back she said she was either coming to New York or have me meet her in Takoma Park, suburban to Washington, at the Votaw residence, where “we will trash this matter out.” That was exactly what I wished--the opportunity to present the thing to the entire group of Hardings.

_154_

Under date of February 12th, I answered Miss Harding’s letter. I took it paragraph by paragraph. Seeing it expressed the same fear about exposure, which had been regarded as paramountly the most important issue by all of them, even to apparent indifference to the issue that was to _me_ the most important and was _always_ their brother’s _first consideration_, I tried to calm her fears.

I said further that “I refuse to use ‘tactics’ of any kind. I am simply frank and honest about things and cannot be diplomatic in this respect.” I further wrote that I felt the provision I wanted for Elizabeth Ann _was_ left in some way for her, that time might prove this to be true; but if so, someone had intercepted it in a way which might be almost impossible to prove. And my concluding sentence was reminiscent of bygone days when I had had her brother to cheer and comfort me in moments that seemed too difficult to bear.

I added a supplemental letter to this one later in the day, sending her a couple of photographs of Elizabeth Ann and asking her to show them to the Votaws if she went through Washington enroute South.

“The hotels are wonderful and not exorbitant,” wrote Miss Harding to me shortly after she arrived in Miami Beach, Florida. They had taken an apartment. Miss Harding said, “We have ... a dining alcove, a large living-room, dressing-room and bath, all for $150 a month. Isn’t that reasonable?...” She was quite enthusiastic over Miami. “... Perhaps when you get to writing and want new local coloring you can come down here and enjoy a winter in the sub-tropics....” Weary and sick at heart, this prospect seemed pleasant, even if a bit distant.

Miss Harding had received the pictures of Elizabeth Ann and said she thought they were good ones. “She certainly looks sturdy and strong ... the front view is all Britton, but I can’t quite tell about the side view. The cheek and eye are similar to those of yours truly or I imagine it....”

She requested me not to write to the Votaws again until I heard from her; she expected, she said, to be there about the last week in March. As usual, her letter was signed, “Lovingly yours.”

I answered this letter on March 7th. I explained that Miss Breed, whose assistant I was at The Town Hall Club, had been ill and that that fact had doubled my own work at the Club again. I agreed to abide by her request not to write the Votaws. I told her Tim Slade had been in New York the previous week and I had had luncheon with him at the Waldorf on Thursday. I mentioned that I hoped we could have him with us at our conference, for he could give the Votaws some strong evidence.

_155_

But my faith in Tim Slade’s sincere desire to help me had dwindled considerably. I had written him notes, urgent ones, requesting his help, but these notes he rarely answered. Before I approached Miss Harding by wire for the previously mentioned $200, I had telephoned Tim by long distance, asking him to come to my rescue. Mrs. Slade answered and called Tim immediately to the phone. I have always felt that Tim made a confidante of Mrs. Slade about my affairs, but this never gave me great concern. However, when I asked Tim on the phone if he could send me $100 to ease my situation a little, he had answered, rather unpleasantly I thought, “Go after the people in Ohio!” Then, when I told him I despaired of getting any further help because of the attitude the Votaws had taken, he said, “Well, if you don’t hear from them, let me know, and I’ll help.” But the money from Miss Harding had made further request to him then unnecessary.

[Illustration: “The cheek and eye are similar to those of yours truly ...”--in a letter to the author from Daisy Harding]

Why, after all, should Tim continue his proffered and promised assistance? He had no assurance that I could repay him unless he himself were able to financially interest those to whom he had gone with my situation. And, though he had spoken about his intended approach to four or five of Mr. Harding’s best friends, he had never named them to me specifically. I was sure that such men as Hoke Donithen and Mr. Brush of the _Star_ could not be numbered among Mr. Harding’s closest friends. To be sure, Tim had intimated that Charles G. Dawes was _his_ “best friend” and I knew Mr. Harding had admired Mr. Dawes, but Tim said no more about him after my first few interviews with him, and I assumed that he had decided not to approach Mr. Dawes. Mr. Crissinger, too, had given Tim no hope that he would have anything to do with the matter which had so vitally concerned the man who had put Mr. Crissinger in the position he occupied, and it looked miserably gloomy in my opinion from the Washington end.

I myself named over various men who, I felt sure, would be interested in helping, or in influencing the Hardings to see their obligation to Mr. Harding’s child. Among these men were Andrew Mellon, Joseph Frelinghuysen, Senator Newberry, Edward B. McLean, Herbert Hoover, Charles Evans Hughes, and Harry M. Daugherty.

I related to Tim how I myself had endeavored to approach Charles E. Hughes one day in late January, 1926, I think, when, in a fit of despondency, I had concluded that it was useless to continue my appeal to the Hardings and I would simply have to give my child up again. I thought if I could see Mr. Hughes he might settle for me the question as to whether the Hardings were morally obligated to Elizabeth Ann, and I would accept his superior judgment as final.

I retain in this connection the memory of a visit I had with Mr. Harding in 1917 or 1918, when he came over to New York to stay all night with me. I met him at the Pennsylvania Station, where I always met him when he came in on the Congressional Limited about nine o’clock. How sweet to see him, the familiar bag in hand, the great overcoat which I always loved, and which used to make him look even more of a giant than he was! And how I remember his cheery, “Hullo, dearie!” when it seemed to me I could feel myself being kissed as he said it. And the query which invariably followed, “Glad to see me?” as I tried to match my shorter steps to his long ones as we made immediately for a taxi. Even now, so vividly does the sight of the Pennsylvania Station recall these meetings to me, that I sometimes think I shall scream with terror to realize anew that he is actually gone, that I shall see him no more!

That night we were talking and Mr. Harding said to me, “Nan, guess with whom I came over in the train tonight?” I couldn’t guess. “Charles E. Hughes,” Mr. Harding said, and there was pride and respect in his tone. It was then that he told me how he used to think if he could ever make the nominating speech for a presidential candidate he would have attained his highest ambition. But, he added, this wouldn’t satisfy _Mrs._ Harding. I recalled how in 1910 it was rumored that it had been Mrs. Harding who took her husband’s gubernatorial defeat with rebellious feeling. And Mr. Harding was reported to have remained calm throughout, merely averring, “Well, that is the last time I shall ever run for anything!” This recalls also to my mind a clipping in my Harding book, and I think the anecdote given is amusing enough to quote:

WHO SHOULD GET HARDING’S JOB IF HE SHOULD DIE? GUESS!

“Who would take President Harding’s place if he should die?” an applicant for naturalization, Pieroni Amato, of 1339 West Grand Avenue, was asked yesterday by Judge Joseph Sabath of the Superior Court.

“His wife,” was the answer.

Amato was given final papers.

I think Mrs. Harding would have made an admirable politician.

When Mr. Harding told me about coming over with Mr. Hughes I could see how it had meant a very great deal to him to make the nominating speech in behalf of Charles Evans Hughes for President in 1916. And to me that night he spoke his very cordial admiration for Mr. Hughes. He said that in his opinion Mr. Hughes would have made an excellent President.

I told Tim Slade how I had met Mr. Hughes one day on the street in New York and had taken the liberty of going up and speaking to him, saying I had no claim upon him except that I hailed from Marion, Ohio, and had been an admirer of President Harding all my life. And at that time it occurred to me that the steady eyes that smiled at me in appreciation and greeting might some day take on the lights of understanding sympathy if I made up my mind to approach him with my problem.

However, it was many months before I thought of Mr. Hughes again in this connection, and, other sources of help having failed me, I went to the office of the former Secretary of State, at 100 Broadway, and presented to his secretary one of Mr. Harding’s letters to me, as a sort of introduction to her employer. The secretary read the letter, but said I would have to tell her the nature of my call upon Mr. Hughes or she could not arrange an interview for me. To this I replied that it was a matter so personal that I could not divulge its character to her, but I assured her that I would not detain Mr. Hughes a second longer than the time needed to state the purpose of my errand. She remained adamant, and I came away without having seen Mr. Hughes.

When I made mention of Mr. Hughes to Tim Slade and repeated the above incident to him, saying I was sure Mr. Hughes had been very fond of Mr. Harding, Tim smiled broadly, and I felt I had again made a political _faux pas_.

I disclaimed wanting anybody to do anything for Elizabeth Ann unless they were so prompted by their love for her father. Tim declared that in that case he was afraid, after all, that he could make little progress. Though I appreciated Tim’s efforts in my behalf, I knew so little about what he was doing that I felt incapable of advising him what _not_ to do, and, anyway, I had my hands full in trying to bring the Hardings to a realization of their obligation. In this connection I very often said to Tim, “Tim, would you be willing to go with me to the Votaws, or meet with us here in New York for a conference?” He assured me he would be more than glad to tell them the things he knew which pointed irrefutably to the truth some of the Hardings did not care to believe.

_156_

I wrote to Miss Harding on March 14th, 1926, apprising her of my resignation from The Town Hall Club, as assistant to the Executive Secretary, and my contemplated association elsewhere. I told her I planned to have from March 23rd until April 1st free, leaving the Club for good the day following the March 23rd Club Dinner, which I had been asked to supervise from the office end. I further expressed the hope that she and Mrs. Votaw could come on to New York, so that I would be spared the physical strain of a trip to Washington.

On the 20th of March I received from Tim Slade a note, sent special delivery to the Club. I had written him again, asking him for help, and in this instance, he answered my appeal. The note was dated March 19, 1926, and simply stated that he was enclosing his check for $100, which he hoped would help me at that time, and that I should always let him know when he could help me. Tim’s note was signed, “Sincerely, Tim.” There was no salutation, though Tim called me “Nan,” having fallen into that form of addressing me during our interviews at the Waldorf. He was a great deal my senior, but somehow so boyish that it came easy to call him “Tim,” as Mr. Harding had always done.

I answered Tim’s note under date of March 20th, saying I was sure I would be able to pay the money back soon, and that I had not heard from Daisy Harding in Florida as yet about our meeting, but would advise him when I did. He had told me he would endeavor to join Miss Harding, Mrs. Votaw and me in New York if they came there.

Soon thereafter I had a note from Miss Harding, dated March 20th, in which she said that she and her husband were going home to Marion the first of the week. Then, she wrote, in three or four days “brother and I will come East.”

This was the first intimation from Miss Harding that her brother, Dr. George Tryon Harding III, was to sit in at the interview we were to have, and I rejoiced to think that he was coming. He was a man, his brother Warren’s only brother, and would take a man’s view of this situation. I acknowledged the receipt of this note from Miss Harding under date of March 24th, and shall quote my letter almost in full:

“Your letter came this morning. As I understand it, you and your brother, Dr. Harding, are coming East the last of this month or the first of April and will no doubt pick up Mrs. Votaw in Washington enroute. I shall await your wire, however, for I am not absolutely sure I understand your letter correctly.

I am leaving the Club (officially) today, although I shall be coming in every so often for the next week. I expect to take up my other work the 1st of April....

I have on my desk this morning the final annulment papers, which gives me the right and the extreme pleasure of signing myself,

Affectionately yours, NAN BRITTON”

Then I wrote Tim Slade, giving him the outline of Miss Harding’s letter and asking him to try to be on hand when they were here. It made me feel better to know that I was to have the opportunity to talk to the brother and sisters of Elizabeth Ann’s father face to face, and to answer any questions they might put to me without the ambiguity that the written word sometimes imposes.

But my sweetheart’s family must have consulted by letter and changed their minds entirely, for under date of March 25th I received from Marion, Ohio, a letter from Daisy Harding. She wrote that she and her brother thought it would be better for me to come on to Marion to the Lewis home (Daisy Harding’s). “... If you can convince him it will not be necessary to call in the others ... if you have legal papers showing the transaction between yourself and the Willitses, I would bring them along ...” Miss Harding wrote. She suggested that perhaps it would be wiser if I did not plan to see any of my Marion friends while there, but left that for decision when I should reach her home. “I’m enclosing a money order for your transportation here. I can give you more later for your return fare....” This letter, also, was signed “Lovingly,” and there was a postscript which said she thought it best for me to be there by Monday or Tuesday morning. However, I did not receive the letter until Monday noon.

This letter struck me as curiously strange in content, and I thought it over as carefully as I could while making whirlwind preparations for leaving that night. I determined, without giving _that_ determination much thought, that I would have to see Tim Slade and get his advice before going on to Marion. And possibly I might be able to persuade him to accompany me, though I disliked to ask him to go to that expense. I promised my precious daughter I would return in plenty of time to hail the rabbit in his jumps at Easter, and left that night for Washington, arriving the following morning.

_157_

I telephoned Tim Slade from the New Willard, and met him there an hour or so later. It was a glorious morning and we took a walk around the lower end of the White House grounds. It did not occur to me that the great house beyond the trees was occupied. To me it would always be deserted--because the big, genial, great-hearted man who used to live there had gone away....

Tim talked to me about my trip to Marion, and when we returned to the Willard and were seated on a couch in one of the emptier drawing-rooms, we discussed definitely the amount of money which I ought to stipulate as just, in my estimation, for Elizabeth Ann. I told him I wanted only what was fair and within reason and thought that $50,000 as a trust fund for Mr. Harding’s daughter would be equitable. This seemed to me entirely fair in view of the fact that Mr. Harding’s estate had been variously reported at from $400,000 to $800,000. In addition to that amount of $50,000, Tim encouraged me to request a minimum of $2,500 for myself, to pay my debts and to leave me a small balance with which to get started in a permanent regime.

Tim reminded me that I could say to Dr. George Tryon Harding that there was a man in Washington who thought enough of Mr. Harding to volunteer to interest four or five other men, each to contribute toward a fund for Elizabeth Ann if the Hardings themselves did not meet their just obligations toward her. I thought this suggestion confirmed in a degree a certain nervous apprehension I had experienced which had led me to anticipate possible unfriendly treatment from the Hardings. I inquired of Tim whether he thought Dr. Harding and his sister would be kind to me, as the latter _had_ been up to this time. He answered with characteristic drollery, “Say, they’ll just _love_ you!” Then he added more seriously, “Why, they are _afraid_ of you! You just stand up for your rights!”

Just then George Christian passed through the alley of the Willard with another gentleman. They were busily engaged in conversation and did not see us. “There goes poor old George!” exclaimed Tim, nodding in his direction. This brought us to the discussion of Mr. Christian, Mr. Daugherty, and others, and around to Mr. Brush. Tim said he had no satisfaction from “Brush” or anybody else, but he had sent Brush word that he wanted to see him the very next time he came to Washington. And Tim’s tone indicated that Mr. Brush would come a-trotting when that word reached him.

“Tim,” I said suddenly, as we sat there reminiscing about Mr. Harding and bygone days and about my marriage-of-convenience to Captain Neilsen, “do you think if this were known publicly I’d stand any chance of ever getting married again if I cared to do so for the baby’s sake?” Tim made a grimace intended to portray amused amazement at such expectation on my part. “Well,” he answered comically, “some moving picture man might have you!”

Tim offered to have a check cashed for me in the New Willard for $15, because I had found that I had less when I reached Washington than I might need before I reached Marion. He said he would have to have his own check cashed, because they might not like to accept a stranger’s, and he took my check to deposit in his bank. Then Tim bade me goodbye and I went to meet a friend, with whom I spent the remainder of my time until my train left.

_158_

I reached Marion, Ohio, my home town, about eleven o’clock the following morning, and went immediately to the Lewis home on Vernon Heights Boulevard. Daisy Harding (Mrs. Ralph Lewis) was alone in the house when I arrived and she was surprised to see me come in at that hour, having expected me earlier in the morning. I explained that I had come by way of Washington, and she did not ask me why. She said her brother intended to motor up from Columbus that afternoon to see me. It was like a raw March day, although it was actually the first day of April, and I observed that Dr. Harding would have quite a drive, for Columbus was forty-five miles away. I was exceedingly tired and lay down upon the couch in the living-room, the selfsame couch where I had sat and revealed to Miss Harding my story nearly one year before. Miss Harding left me to prepare luncheon, saying her maid had proven unsatisfactory and she had therefore dismissed her and was doing her own housework.

It was very quiet there in the living-room, and the peaceful atmosphere and Daisy Harding’s loving welcome to me made it seem highly unlikely that the interview could be other than friendly. Mr. Harding’s picture, the one with Laddie Boy, stood in the same spot on the table behind the couch where I lay ... all was restful with my sweetheart ... no more worries ... harmony....

My mental relaxation continued as I chatted with Miss Harding during luncheon, and after luncheon we did the dishes together. Dr. George Tryon Harding III arrived by motor in a blizzard. Miss Harding and I were in her own sitting-room upstairs, and she went down to open the door for her brother. We were to have our interview there in Miss Harding’s room, and so I remained on the _chaise longue_ where I had been resting.

“Now, remember, Nan, brother ‘Deac’ intends to grill you unmercifully. Don’t get angry. Just try to remain calm,” cautioned Miss Harding before going downstairs to greet her brother. She brought him upstairs immediately. Dr. Harding shook hands with me in a business-like manner and with scarcely a smile, and Miss Harding went out of the room. Evidently her brother had decided that she might betray her sympathy, and it had been thought better for him to see me alone. But that did not matter to me, for my story was the same, no matter to whom it was repeated, and I can repeat it indefinitely without change.

I opened the conversation. “Well, Dr. Harding,” I remarked pleasantly, as he sat down upon the edge of Miss Harding’s rocker, “I suppose this story is a strange one to you.” He replied very briefly that it was a story he felt obliged to investigate carefully, inasmuch as his brother was not here to stand up for himself. I agreed that that was right and proper.

“Now, where did the first intimacy which you allege take place?” inquired Dr. Harding, looking up from the little notebook which was poised upon his knee. A wave of hurt swept over me, that he should plunge so indelicately into facts which were for me so shrouded in sentiment.

I said, “Suppose I begin from the very beginning, Dr. Harding, giving you a bit of my childhood background and adoration for your brother?” He acquiesced and relaxed slightly.

I recalled my childhood, my father’s friendship with his editor-brother, my love of Warren Harding, which began when I was scarcely thirteen, my father’s death when I was about sixteen, my subsequent schooling at the expense of my father’s college classmates, my first meeting with Mr. Harding in New York following my request to him for a position, and, gradually, our further meetings which led to ultimate intimacies prompted by mutual love.

After I had got into the meetings with Mr. Harding which were all-night trysts, Dr. Harding interrupted me many times to ask, “When was that?” or “Where did that meeting take place?” and I supplied from memory the approximate time and place. All of this information he jotted down in his little notebook. It was as difficult for me to recall aloud for the doctor the many occasions of our sweet visits together as it had been to recite the whole story to his sister, Daisy Harding, but the knowledge that I was doing it for Elizabeth Ann gave me the needed courage to go on.

I had not dreamed that Dr. Harding intended to catechize me as a judge might a witness, and I wondered if by so doing he had thought to frighten me into confusion. But this was an unworthy thought. The seriousness of the situation probably justified in his eyes the use of pencil and pad and direct questions. Dr. Harding is rather a small man, and somehow, seeing him sitting there on the edge of the chair, plying me with questions as to “when?” and “where?” aroused my pity. If his brother Warren were only there! _He_ would say, as he did once before, “Let this poor little girl go--_I’ll_ answer your questions.”

I could not help associating Mr. Harding’s remark about his brother with his brother’s very attitude toward me now. “Brother Deac is the only man I know who never slept with a woman prior to his marriage,” Mr. Harding had said to me. And as I looked at him now while I poured out my story again through tears and exclamations of love for him I worshipped, it occurred to me that indeed it might be difficult for such a frail looking individual to understandingly sympathize with a situation of this kind, which had needed the strength of a love this man could probably never know to yield the glory of consummation Warren Harding and I had experienced.

_159_

In the two hours we were together I gave Dr. Harding as detailed information as I could. I showed him my copies of the guardianship papers and the adoption papers, and he looked them over very carefully and took notes upon them. I showed him the letters I had from his brother, the early letters which contained no love allusions and which Mr. Harding had permitted me to keep. These letters did not interest him much, apparently. He seemed particularly interested in _dates_ and _exact places_. I wondered vaguely at his wanting these so definitely, for up to that time they had remained with me only because of their dear associations, and it had not occurred to me that anyone would care to _trace_ them. It seemed inconceivable that anyone should doubt my story, hearing it from my own lips. However, this was Dr. Harding’s manner of ascertaining facts, and I was eager to help him in any way I could. I volunteered to go with him, or alone, to the hotels where his brother and I had been, in an endeavor to trace for him the exact dates in the instances where I could not recall the day, week, or month.

I inquired of him if he knew of a particular physical trouble his brother had. He looked at me questioningly and I explained. The doctor disclaimed knowledge of this condition, and I concluded that he had not professionally looked after his brother’s ailments.

I described the layout of Mr. Harding’s senate offices, and told the doctor I had been in both of them, and gave him the numbers on the doors.

It seemed to me that Dr. Harding evidenced some irritancy at my frankness, and indeed I gave him only the opportunity of squeezing in his “wheres?” and “whens?” edgewise. But there was so _much_ to tell, and my only fear was that I would not tell _every_thing. However, I had been very tired even when I started, and finally I became actually _voice_-tired. The doctor’s expression throughout had remained stonily impassive, even when I drew pictures so sacred to me that my body shook with feeling at their remembrance. Now he looked up.

“Well, what is your idea of a settlement provided we can ascertain these things to be true which you state to be facts?” I thought, “Oh, sweetheart Warren, you know how difficult this has been for me! You know how it hurts me, cruelly, cruelly, not to be believed!”

Then I said to Dr. Harding in a voice which seemed to me suddenly strengthened, “I think Elizabeth Ann should have that to which she is rightly entitled as his daughter.”

Dr. Harding looked up quickly, his face full of consternation--the first visible signs during our conference that he was moved at all by my revelations.

“Why, you mean--” he stammered, “you mean _all_ of the Harding Estate--for that would be what she would get as his daughter!”

Oh, God! I thought. Was Tim Slade right, after all? Could it be possible that these people, _these Hardings_, were loath to part with _money_, even a little of the money left to them by the man whose daughter’s rightful claims I had been prosecuting with my spoken words? Impossible! I spoke with outward calm to the doctor.

“No, I do not mean that at all. I mean that she should get a fair amount, say $50,000, to be put into a trust fund so that she would have a monthly income to live upon.”

I may have imagined the seeming relief in his voice as he answered, “And is that _all_?” He was writing in his little notebook.

“No,” I answered, “I think also that I should have enough to settle my indebtednesses which were incurred directly as a result of my attempt to keep my daughter with me during my marriage, and $2,500 would allow me to settle these debts and have a balance upon which to ‘turn around,’ as it were.”

All this was jotted down in the notebook, apparently verbatim.

Dr. Harding started to rise. “And, Dr. Harding,” I said, “you will understand that I would appreciate having this arrangement start as soon as possible, because it means so much to me in making my plans to have Elizabeth Ann.” The doctor’s face registered anger. “I most certainly refuse to be hurried in my investigations,” he said. I hastened to assure him that I did not wish to hurry him, but on the contrary wished him to take all the time required to establish the truth of my statements, and I myself would do all in my power to aid him, thus perhaps expediting the investigations.

“But I must know whether or not you people wish to do this for Elizabeth Ann,” I said, “because there is a man in Washington who has volunteered to attempt to raise such a fund among Mr. Harding’s most intimate friends.” I am sure the doctor did not mean to betray the alert interest and alarm I so clearly read in his query, “Who is it?” I explained that I was not at liberty at present to divulge the gentleman’s identity. Dr. Harding moved toward the door. I rose to follow him downstairs. I do not remember that Dr. Harding thanked me for the interview, but I remember that I thanked him.

We joined his sister and her husband for dinner. Dr. Harding ate hurriedly, saying he had to return to Columbus to attend school exercises in which his daughter was taking part, and bade us goodbye. I thanked him again for coming out in the storm forty-five miles to talk with me and could not help wondering why he seemed to accept this little speech with seeming impatience.

_160_

When Daisy Harding and I were doing up the dishes that evening, I said to her, “Why, you said he would probably be very severe in his remarks to me. He wasn’t so terrible--just wanted to know dates. I was not afraid of him.” I did not add that rather had I felt sorry for him. Miss Harding replied that he had threatened to “pin me down” to every little thing. However, he hadn’t needed to contemplate any such strenuous course of action, for I was all too ready to talk freely and truthfully. Miss Harding sighed. “Brother Deac is not well. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he were to go any day; his heart is very weak.” I said I was sorry to hear that. I was pretty weak myself.

I told Miss Harding that her brother had asked me for the dates of the two checks which I had sent personally to my sister Elizabeth, for the baby’s care, in amounts of $500 and $525, and I had promised to send these to him. Also he had asked me for the date upon which Mr. Harding had sent me my watch, and this date, also, I would send him from New York immediately upon my return.

I did not think Miss Harding seemed anxious for me to remain over until the following day, and so I decided to return on the late train that night. Her husband, Mr. Lewis, bade me goodbye and retired early, leaving Miss Harding and me to talk together until my taxi came. Ralph Lewis seemed to be such a dear, and I have often wondered exactly what is in his mind as to my _liaison_ with his wife’s brother. Yes, I thought, as I shook hands with him that night, I would give a lot to know just what Ralph Lewis thinks--the good-natured man who used to sell me sour pickles in his grocery-store--when I was a little girl!

_161_

Again Daisy Harding and I went over the ground we had already covered in our talk the previous June, and on into uncommented territory as well.

The Marion High School, where Miss Harding had taught for perhaps twenty years, had voted some time back to change its name to the “Harding High School,” and I knew Miss Harding had taken great pride in this. But Miss Harding’s statement to me, in a voice that betrayed apprehension, “If this should get out, Nan, they would take the Harding name away from the high school!” only made me realize more keenly how pitifully narrow was the thinking which would place the fear of revealment above the desire to do the right thing by their brother’s child.

And the possibility itself was ridiculous. Had not hundreds of public men been unconventional, and with far less justification than Warren Harding, and were not their names and deeds written on the calendar of achievement? Would a handful of people--even the home-town friends of Warren Harding--decree that because he had become a father he was unfit for namable perpetuation through any medium whatsoever? If this be the test of true worth, of real manhood, pray what would become of many of the statues and memorials and foundations which stand for the names of world-heroes and benefactors? The strongest of men are weak, and the weakest are strong, but the fact remains that “a man’s a man for a’ that”!

And what inescapable torment of the mind must my friends be suffering to pin their fears to another remote possibility--that disclosure would bring in its wake the condemnation of certain outsiders where their _religion_ was concerned! Else what prompted Miss Harding to inquire anxiously, perhaps at the instigation of her missionary sister, “You don’t think your Aunt Dell knows this, do you Nan?” Poor child! What if my Baptist missionary aunt _did_ know that the brother of her one-time friend, Mrs. Votaw, a Seventh Day Adventist, had followed his heart and as a consequence had become a father out of wedlock? Granted that petty criticism would ensue, Mr. Harding himself was a Baptist, and it seemed to me that that would cross the fingers of both churches! But was one religion and its accomplishments advanced at the expense of another? Do churches capitalize upon each other? Is this the spirit that Jesus exemplified? “Do unto others as ye would that they should do to you.” Would not true Christians tend their own flock, nor heed the strayings of their neighbors?

And well did I ponder the source of inspiration which led Miss Harding to insist that in her opinion the safest way out for me was to marry again. Though I heartily agreed that this would be a way, and possibly the easiest way, of solving my problem; though I discussed with her the several eligible possibilities in my life at that time, and my frank appraisement of each; still, as I told her, the fact remained that such a course was cowardly unless I were prompted by genuine love of the man himself, and not by a superficial, blind acceptance of him for the sake of using his name. And Miss Harding agreed that love would be the only right basis.

Miss Harding and I discussed the talk I had had that afternoon with her brother, and I repeated in as much detail as time permitted my interview with Dr. Harding. I told her that if the matter could not be settled in a reasonable length of time by the Hardings, I thought I should be so advised, because, as I had told her brother, I intended in that event to approach in all seriousness the man in Washington who had volunteered to raise a fund from the anticipated generosity of Mr. Harding’s closest friends.

“Why, Nan!” exclaimed Miss Harding in amazement, “you would not approach _strangers_, would you?”

What rightful thing would I _not_ do for the daughter of Warren Harding? What would I not give of pride to have her with me, in her rightful place? Ah, even then did the last vestige of pride die within me, and the mother spirit to assert itself, it seemed for all time, when I declared with almost arrogant fervor, “I would do _any_thing to obtain fair treatment for Elizabeth Ann!”

“But, Nan,” Daisy Harding exclaimed in astonishment, “the money _was not left_ to you nor to Elizabeth Ann!”

Is justice the result of a few pen scratches? Was not my story in itself ample proof that provision must have been made somehow, even though the written word of my daughter’s father had not been found? Wherefore would a real man lovingly care for his sweetheart and child during his lifetime and pass on, intentionally leaving a broken-hearted and destitute love-family behind? And, even granted that his sudden passing had made impossible the provision he had so often spoken of to me, did the responsibility cease with his demise? Did not this responsibility rest upon the shoulders of those whom he had been able to publicly include in a will whose liberal bequests certainly indicated his probable generosity to his own daughter?

“My dear,” I replied to Miss Harding, “you do not know _what_ was left, nor do I, and he would not be the sweetheart I have known had he passed on without making some kind of provision for our baby.”

Daisy Harding kissed me goodbye as the taxi honked outside, and wished me a safe journey. As I whirled down Church Street, past scene after scene so familiar yet so strangely remote, this thought occurred to me: No one, to my knowledge, except the Lewises and Dr. Harding, knew I was in Marion, Ohio, on April 1st, 1926.

_162_

I will quote the letter I wrote to Dr. Harding under date of April 4th, 1926, although I received not even an acknowledgment from him. I sent it to him through Daisy Harding, because I did not have his address at his sanitarium in Columbus.

“MY DEAR DR. HARDING:

The dates of the checks sent to my sister by me are October 24, 1921, and November 7, 1921.

The date of the letter I have from Mr. Harding, which was sent the same time that the watch from Galt’s was chosen and sent by him, is August 11th, 1917. As I told you, this watch was a birthday gift, and my birthday is November 9th, but it was given early because I was greatly in need of a timepiece. His identity in connection with the purchase of this watch might be ascertained.

I was conscious last Wednesday afternoon when talking with you (rather _to_ you, for you did little talking!) of reminiscing, and perhaps the approximate dates which I gave you were not put down chronologically by you in your notebook. I only wish to say that I shall be very glad to repeat the whole story to you at any time or to help you in any way if you run up against anything you are not sure about.

I should also be very glad to give you the names and addresses of various people who would be able and very glad for Elizabeth Ann’s sake to tell you certain things in connection with this matter and to verify other things that I have stated.

If I seem impatient in wishing to have this matter settled as quickly as possible, it is not at all because I wish to hurry you in your investigations; because, contrarily, I wish to do everything in my power to assist you; but I am anxious to make plans for the very immediate future and I therefore would be very glad if the investigations were expedited. As I stated to you in Marion, I would very gladly accompany you to the various hotels, here in this city as well as to others in Washington, etc., if I could be of service. Of course, aside from hotel registrations, this thing can be proven and I mean to keep at it until it is. It would be grossly unfair for me to expect the Hardings to go into such investigations without giving them such proof, and from a sufficient number of sources as would scatter any remaining doubts in their minds as to the authenticity of the statements made and the absolute right I have had to approach them. Mr. Harding used to be a great man for doing things on a 50-50 basis and I have from the first wished to be fair with you people--and to receive such treatment in return. I am sure I shall.

I hope you reached home safely--it was very kind of you to come out in such a storm and I was appreciative. Your coming on Wednesday afternoon enabled me to get off that night and back to New York. I have just started to work with the above concern, and, as Mr. Harding once wrote to me about the Steel Corporation, “making good counts with them.”

Most sincerely,

NAN BRITTON”

“P. S.--I can be reached at the above address, care of Suite 516, and the telephone number is above. I have my annulment now, you know, so am known as Miss Nan Britton. You can also address me at my home, 609 West 114th Street, Apartment 46, and address me the same--Miss Britton.”

I sent Daisy Harding and Tim Slade letters also, telling the latter in brief form what had been accomplished by me in Marion.

_163_

When in Marion on April 1st, during my talk with Miss Harding, I had told her very frankly how in debt I was and that my rent of $130 would fall due again on April 10th. It had been her postal telegraph order for $400 which had enabled me to pay the two previous months’ rent, and at that time I really felt that when the time rolled around for the April rent a sufficient amount would again be forthcoming to cover it. However, Miss Harding had given me only enough when there to cover my return fare, Pullman and meals on the train, and, back in New York on the 2nd of April, I found bills awaiting me on all sides. Moreover, as is often the case when receipts are not asked for, I was being charged $40 in one instance which I did not owe at all, and this distressed me very greatly, and depleted my bank account even more than I had anticipated. But the rent was my chief concern. Not knowing where to turn, I wired Daisy Harding again for something more than that amount; I think I wired her for $150, though I did not retain a copy of that particular telegram.

Miss Harding’s reply to that telegram, a letter sent special delivery under date of April 10th, enclosing money orders in the amounts of $50 and $75 was a clear index to her feelings, feelings obviously developed toward me since my visit with her brother at Daisy Harding’s home less than two weeks before. In her opening sentence she said she was enclosing $125, “which is all I can let you have.... I feel that I have been generous ... especially when I gave you that $400.... I can’t let you have any more, for I, too, have obligations....” Then followed the suggestion that I should find cheaper living quarters by going out to one of the suburbs. “... It would necessitate your rising a little earlier ... but that means very little at this time of the year....” Then came the astounding suggestion that if I could not get a cheaper place to live I might better send Elizabeth Ann to her Grandmother Willits’ farm, where she could have the advantage afforded by the country! As though the mother of Warren Harding’s child should have nothing to say, should acquiescently ship his daughter to people who were _not relatives_, simply because she would find there a welcome for her! My brother-in-law’s people, though admittedly the kindest people one could imagine, were nevertheless certainly not the people upon whose shoulders the burden of maintaining a home for Warren Harding’s daughter should rest. And after giving some further suggestions, the letter ended with “Hastily, A. V. H. Lewis.” Something told me instinctively that Daisy Harding would no more sign her letters to me, “Lovingly.”

It seemed to me that I had been cruelly dismissed from further loving consideration by her who had once termed herself one “who never fails a friend.” Perhaps I had been removed from her friend category. But if so, it was only since I had talked with her brother in Marion.

Yet I knew this was not the real Daisy Harding. It was _another woman_, a woman lately influenced, in my opinion, to believe that she had been the victim of an imposition. I was mortally sure that members of her family who had been utterly remiss in recognizing their own obligations to their brother’s child had been swift to denounce my appeal as an attempt to obtain money under false pretenses.

Fragments of our conversation came back to me--and one sentence in particular now seemed to me freighted with a meaning I had failed to catch when Daisy Harding had uttered it to me in her home.

“Brother Deac thinks you might have changed, Nan. He said to me, ‘What if she is not the same kind of girl you taught in high school ... she has been in the city ... it is quite likely she has changed!’” Why, if argued sufficiently strongly, this would become a peg upon which to hang various and sundry ill opinions of me! As Daisy Harding had written to me, so evidently had she been persuaded to believe “... your claim is one that any woman can make and get away with to a certain extent, and while it isn’t, it might look like a complete case of blackmail....” How overwhelming are the feelings of disappointment and hurt I experience as I write these things and live over the agony of mind they caused me!

Yet quite unconsciously one does change under the force of cruel circumstance. One does become raw under the lash of injustice. One is apt to become, as I did, almost stark and brutal in stating truths. This follows inevitably when one’s life cause, one’s sacred pledge of fidelity, has been dealt with lightly, indifferently. The Votaws, for instance, likely felt the smart of words I had written out of the boldness of my spirit. For the body may be broken, but the spirit of Right never faints. So perhaps the imputation that I had “changed” was really true. But the _truth_ does not change. I had spoken the truth unwaveringly. But it is not always expedient to believe.

The letter received from this changed Daisy Harding brought to my mind something she said in a letter sent February 2, 1924, shortly after my marriage to Captain Neilsen. She wrote, in speaking of her brother Warren and lamenting his untimely passing:

“to think brother wasn’t permitted to live long enough to do the things that he wanted to do, to go where he wanted to go. If only he could have known a little of the love, a little of the praise that was so generously bestowed on him after he was gone. We are all too slow in appreciation, too little given to expressing our love when it is most needed.”

_164_

My reply to Daisy Harding’s letter enclosing the money orders for $125 now follows:

“MY DEAR MISS HARDING:

Thank you for sending the money orders for $75 and $50.

I am able to account, from cancelled vouchers, etc., for every cent you have given me, and I can assure you it was spent for nothing but expenses in connection with my endeavor to maintain an apartment and only decent living quarters for your brother’s and my own beloved child. For nothing else.

I remember your telling me, Miss Harding, that you paid $150 for two rooms, kitchenette and bath, in Florida this winter. You thought it very reasonable, according to a letter received from you, but you said Mrs. Keiler could not live with you because there was not enough room. Well, I live in three rooms with mother and the baby, and we have lived there all winter, with no other home to which to go. Do you honestly think that my rent of $130 is out of keeping? I looked long and hard before taking that place, and for many reasons it seemed the best thing to do.

As for moving to the country, I thought I made it clear that my plans for staying in my present apartment are altogether tentative, even though I _had_ to take a lease until October in order to get the place. In New York the only available thing to be had by the month is “rooms”--and taking them by the month or by the week, oftentimes they come higher than when one takes an apartment. I have, as a matter of fact, been making inquiry into possible living quarters in the country. Your suggestion about mother’s looking is impossible to me, because mother does not venture anywhere except to church. She knows nothing at all about the outlying districts or suburbs and I myself have to make and have made all arrangements of all kinds in connection with my plans this winter. If I find I can get something in New Rochelle or some other place, be sure I shall try to sublet and move, for summers in the city are not to be courted....

[Illustration]

I have already made some inquiry at one hotel here in the city to help Dr. Harding in his endeavors to prove to the satisfaction of the Harding family that the things I have said are true, and I think the next time I write I shall have some more dates to give him.

You must remember that it has been almost a year since I confided this thing to you, and up to this time nothing has been done in the way of a steady, stable income for E. A. Does that really seem fair? To be sure, I am not unmindful of, nor am I ungrateful for, your help, but you know that the first $200--or nearly so--went for her kindergarten, the $400 went for rent for two months and to repay some loans which had to be met and which I incurred during the time I was writing the Votaws and trying to get their co-operation without loading all the burden upon you. This $125 is being paid out today for rent also. You must remember, it is not as though you were actually paying my rent--that money could be considered simply the income E. A. should have--should be having month by month--to make it more bearable for me--and _it should come from all of the Hardings_ instead of from your dear self.

Of course your letter hurt me--but perhaps I may have to sacrifice your friendship in endeavoring to have this thing settled rightly. And it is not that I love you less, but that I love my precious daughter more.

I would very much have liked to return your $125 to you, but I simply could not. If I have been too truthful and honest with you in telling you all about my affairs, expenses, etc., it is simply that I really do not know much about being clever and dishonest. If I had, I would not now be writing to you about money, or the need of it, because I would have seen to it that I was amply taken care of in case of such emergency as did arise. But I prefer not to be clever in that way.

Love to you.

Most sincerely,

NAN BRITTON”

Mr. Harding had, while alive, provided ample funds for the care of our child. During the time of his incumbency in the presidential office, after the adoption had been arranged, he had given me $500 a month to give to my sister and her husband for their care of the baby, and had also provided more than generously for me. The income on my suggested $50,000 would only be $250 a month. So it was surely unfair both to his sense of justice and to his daughter’s rightful requests, through her mother, for Miss Harding to thus summarily dismiss the matter of a reasonable trust fund for Elizabeth Ann.

Where was Justice? Where was Right? Where was Honor? Surely the spirit of these high truths dwelt not among those who perceived them only microscopically! If _my_ child, the child begotten of the President of the United States, and maintained by him as such, gladly, with fond acknowledgment of his fatherhood,--if this child could not obtain justice at the hands of her blood relations, how futilely must thousands and thousands of unhusbanded mothers plead for the recognition of their little ones over all the land! Fidelity to my sweetheart, loyalty to his family, truth and honesty of purpose, were rewarded thus! Surely Jesus knew the human heart and the temptation to harbor rancor when he said to his disciples, “After this manner therefore pray ye ... forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”

_165_

In a letter to Tim Slade under date of April 30th, I was obliged to apologize for some trouble I had given him in connection with his having kindly cashed my check for $15 when I went through Washington. Because of failure on my part to endorse the money order which Miss Harding sent me for $40 to defray my expenses to Marion, my bank account was credited with $40 less than I should have had, and having had to pay the other $40 which was charged to me erroneously, my account was not sufficient to cover Tim’s check when it came through. In my letter to him I said, “If I receive enough from her (meaning Daisy Harding) between now and the 2nd or 3rd to cover it (meaning the check for $15 which I had not been able to make good), I’ll let you know. Otherwise, will you go ahead and send me the $100, please? I am pretty sure things are going to right themselves. I haven’t told you the reaction my former letter has had, but I can talk to you better when you come.” This was the letter from Miss Harding in which she seemed to resent any further request for financial assistance.

On April 30th, after having despatched the letter to Tim Slade, I received, upon my return home that evening, a small package from Miss Harding. It contained a bracelet I had left on her dressing-table in Marion, and wrapped around the bracelet were two $20 bills. Having had so much difficulty over the $40 which I did not owe, and the $40 money order which Miss Harding had sent me for railroad fare to Marion and which I had failed to endorse, with the subsequent distress of not being able to cover my $15 check to Tim, I sighed with humorous appreciation when I perceived another $40! But I was indeed grateful for any amount she saw fit to send. Immediately, under the same date, I sent her a letter of thanks. In this letter I quoted liberally from one received from my sister Elizabeth. My sister had written of their own financial difficulties, and how she and her husband planned to be in Chicago that summer, both working. They were not planning upon taking Elizabeth Ann unless I wrote that I myself could not keep her.

Under date of May 7th, I wrote Tim Slade, and shall quote from my letter:

“I intimated to Miss Harding my financial status this month, but up to this time I have had nothing except the $40 told you about in a previous letter....

Would you be willing to go to the Votaws’ with me if I came to Washington? Or would you suggest some other plan of action? As I told Miss H. in my last letter to her, it has been almost a year since I went to her with my story, and up to this time nothing permanent or stable has been put in trust for E. A....

... don’t forget to send me the check for $100--and if you are broke at this time, let me know, for I’ll have to resort to something, though I don’t know what yet.”

As I look back upon Tim Slade’s course of comparative inaction, I wonder why I kept on hoping he would ever be able to accomplish anything for Elizabeth Ann. But it is easy to see that I have had nothing except hope to cling to, and “hope springs eternal.”

Not having even an acknowledgment from Tim of the letter just quoted above, I decided to take what had been in my head as the next step if I met disappointment on all side. Perhaps, after all, I was wrong, and it was right for me to suffer, and forfeit for my daughter all hope of being aided substantially by those who were her father’s people. I would seek the counsel and judgment of one who was surely eminently qualified to advise me, and I would frankly ask him exactly where he felt my duty toward my child lay. He was my sweetheart’s friend. He was a statesman. He was an Ohioan. And I would go to _him_.

_166_

So, under date of May 15th, 1926, I wrote to the Vice-President of the United States, Charles G. Dawes, as follows:

“Brigadier-General Charles G. Dawes, Washington, D. C.

MY DEAR SIR:

There is a matter of grave importance which I would very much like to discuss briefly with you.

It concerns an individual in whom a mutual friend of yours and of mine was intensely interested.

Inasmuch as it is a matter both private and personal, it is impossible of discussion with your secretary or anyone else who might represent you in ordinary affairs of business.

Will you be good enough to grant me a brief interview?

Respectfully,

(MISS) NAN BRITTON”

I would go to him as soon as he replied to my letter, and I was sure he would reply in the affirmative and grant me an interview. Even though he were the Vice-President, he would be accessible to a citizen of the United States if that citizen could produce a letter of such friendliness as that which I would show him I had received back in 1917 from Mr. Harding. I was entirely unafraid to discuss my matter for Elizabeth Ann with anyone, even the King of England, and I would put it squarely to General Dawes as to whether he thought I had asked for more than was Elizabeth Ann’s due when I requested from the Hardings $50,000 for her. I would explain to him that I was willing to continue carrying my own indebtedness _if I could obtain justice for my child and Warren Harding’s_. Tim Slade had said Mr. Dawes had been willing to help raise a fund for Elizabeth Ann, and, though I did not understand Tim’s sudden curtailment of the discussion of his plans in this respect, I would straighten it all out in General Dawes’ mind when I saw him.

Tim had said to me that he had not divulged my identity to the various men with whom he had talked, but Miss Harding’s letter to me, in which she said her husband had learned the story from Hoke Donithen, had inclined me to believe that perhaps Tim had forgotten in some instances to be discreet. In the case of my letter written to General Dawes, I was sure that the letter itself, with correct signature, would immediately attach itself in the mind of Mr. Dawes to the story Tim had told him, no matter how much or how little of it he was acquainted with.

On May 20th, five days after I had mailed the letter to General Dawes, I received from Tim Slade a check for $100, and a note saying that he had been away; to let him know how things were; and he would be over the first week in June.

My indebtedness to Tim Slade was thereby increased to a total of $327.50. That was the last money I received from him, and I have been endeavoring vainly to repay him ever since.

When Tim came over the first week in June, he telephoned me at my office and I promised to meet him at the Waldorf. One of the first things I said to him was, “Tim, I wrote to General Dawes.” “Yes, I know,” answered Tim. I was immensely interested. “Oh, how did _you_ know? My letter was short, and I asked him for an interview.” “What did you do that for?” Tim queried. Tim had talked with Mr. Dawes after the latter had received my note, he told me. I reiterated that there was nothing in my letter which would give Mr. Dawes a clue to what my errand would be unless he connected my name with the story, which was in truth what I had hoped he would do. “Yes, I know, _I saw the letter_,” were Tim’s words. Then Tim told me how the Vice-President had called him over to his office and had handed him a bunch of letters, saying, “Tim, here is a bunch of letters. Look through them, and if you see any that interest you, take them out.” And Tim had looked through and had found my letter and had taken it out and destroyed it. I recalled how Tim had told me in an early discussion that Mr. Dawes had said to him that his name “must not be known in this,” in case he, Mr. Dawes, contributed to the fund which Tim hoped to raise for Elizabeth Ann.

Tim told me upon this visit that he had seen Mr. Brush and the latter had promised to go to Marion and to talk with all of the Hardings, and Tim said he was sure something would come of such an interview. He asked me to bring Elizabeth Ann down to the Waldorf the following evening for dinner so that he might see her. This I did, and Tim said several times during the evening that he could see “the Harding” in her. As for Elizabeth Ann, she had played hard that day, and was a bit tired that evening and fidgety at the table, but she kissed Tim when he left us at the corner that night where we waited for the bus, and she told him she had enjoyed her dinner with him. Tim said, “I’m glad you did, dear.”

_167_

Meanwhile, in my home, my mother was awaiting my pleasure before making definite plans for herself for the summer, and I did not want to admit to myself as yet that I had failed to obtain substantial enough help from the Hardings to enable me to carry on and keep Elizabeth Ann. But I had to admit that it looked as though our little home would have to be disrupted and I would have to appeal once more to my sister to take Elizabeth Ann back.

[Illustration: _Drawn by_ ELIZABETH ANN--Mother’s Day, June 9, 1926]

I had read somewhere about the coming services in connection with the laying of the cornerstone of The Harding Memorial in Marion, Ohio, and I had written to obtain a descriptive leaflet about it. I noticed that on the back of the leaflet were the officers and trustees of the Memorial, among whom appeared at least four names of men who, I knew, were acquainted, through Tim Slade, with part, if not all, of my story. These men were George B. Christian, Jr., Vice-President Charles G. Dawes, D. Richard Crissinger, and Hoke Donithen, all having been listed as officers for The Harding Memorial in some capacity--all reckoned friends of Mr. Harding.

I mailed Tim Slade this leaflet about the Memorial and the ceremony programs, and wrote him that I wished I could attend. If only I could obtain the necessary funds to make the trip, I would go to Marion, to be there for the services, and while there I would “round up” in some way the people who were attending and taking part in those ceremonies. These, combined with the Hardings themselves, who, I was sure, would be in attendance, I would ask in Warren Harding’s name to listen to me, and to take some action in behalf of Warren Harding’s child. And, so desperate was I, and so sick in mind and body, I even meditated upon interrupting the ceremony itself, speaking publicly for the child of her father, Warren Harding, whose memory could be better perpetuated by providing for her welfare than by building million-dollar memorials in his honor.

However, I did not have the necessary funds, and inasmuch as I heard nothing from Tim I knew he was unwilling to finance such a trip for me--although not to hear from Tim was an old story. Also, I was physically unfit to contemplate such a journey as that and the nervous strength it would demand. And so, while indignation and bitterness surged hot within me, I continued to hope, and, in less rebellious mood, to pray.

_168_

Meanwhile, having managed to pay something on my rent, I was holding the apartment, trying to see in some direction financial alleviation and the possibility of making a home through the summer for Elizabeth Ann. My sister wrote that if I could not take care of her they would of course motor out and get her, and the trip would provide them with a vacation. But to these notes I made evasive replies, clinging to my hope of hearing from the Hardings. But I did not hear, and the second week of June rolled around. I was compelled to advise my landlady that I would be unable to occupy the apartment that summer, and I ran an ad in the _Times_ for a summer occupant to carry on my lease.

Under date of June 14th, 1926, I received a note from Daisy Harding. The note had been posted from Hillsboro, Ohio, through which town she must have been motoring, though it was headed in Miss Harding’s handwriting, “Troy, Ohio.” It contained a money order for another $40. The note itself was only a few lines. The $40, she wrote, might help in defraying my monthly expenses. She supposed I was moving to a suburb, where she was sure we would all be happier. This letter was signed, “Hastily, Lewis.”

So it had come to this! She must sign her letters just plain “Lewis,” and that disguisedly, so that it could be taken for the name of a man if seen! Oh, how pitiful it all was! Miss Harding, who really wanted to help me, had apparently succumbed to other members of her family and was following their probable advices to be careful. The attempt to disguise her signature was the final proof to me of their fear of the entire situation. I had many, many letters from Miss Harding, and one needed only to put the handwriting of the body of the letters side by side to know that they had been written by the selfsame person. It was as impossible for her to disguise her writing as it had been impossible for her brother Warren to do so in the few instances which seemed to demand his attempt in that direction. How deplorable the situation that she should feel herself confronted with the _necessity_ for disguise in order to insure protection. It was such an admission in itself. An admission which spoke eloquently of responsibility deliberately ignored.

It seemed I had failed all around to sponsor Elizabeth Ann’s cause successfully: In the first place my marriage had been a disappointment and a failure; my approach to the Hardings had fallen flat except in the case of the $800 altogether which Miss Harding had supplied; Tim Slade had apparently failed in his attempts in behalf of my daughter; and even the Vice-President of the United States, assuming that he knew the truth, had failed to see in my situation enough of importance or merit to warrant his serious consideration or kindly help.

Therefore, it seemed up to me to fight almost single-handedly--and what mother is there in the world who, loving her child as dearly as I loved the child Warren Harding and I had given to each other, would dare to deny that it was my sacred duty now, all things having failed, to fight for her rights, even to disregarding the sensibilities of those who had ignored and neglected _her_!

_169_

But, in seeking the right method of solving Elizabeth Ann’s problem for her, I realized that mere speed was impracticable where right motives prompted, and I was forced to admit to myself that nothing could be accomplished in time to enable me to keep Elizabeth Ann with me through the summer of 1926.

I was determined to write again to Elizabeth and Scott, but had not actually done so, when they dropped in upon us one Sunday afternoon, having motored through from Ohio. In view of existing circumstances, their appearance in New York seemed almost to indicate actual divination, and I was secretly grateful for whatever decisions had resulted in their making the trip East. They explained that they had given up the idea of going to Chicago for the summer and planned instead to go to the Willits farm in Illinois (Scott’s people’s farm), making use of the quiet and leisure there for music practice in preparation for their fall work.

I had not had up until then, and did not have after their arrival, any discussion with Elizabeth and Scott of my attempts to date to establish Elizabeth Ann’s claim upon the Hardings, and they made ready to start back West, with my baby, after a few days’ visit. Again I was left alone. Again I had been forced to give her up.

I had experienced many heart-breaks in having to part with my daughter, but up to that time they had been, like the black clouds of a thunder storm, mentally devastating to me only so long as I permitted myself to see only the clouds. When I saw beyond their obscuration, the sun, which was the glory of my child ultimately restored to me, then my heartaches, like the clouds, disappeared. Mental indecisions and temporary discouragements gave way to renewed purpose and heartfelt anticipation. I was a crusader of a great Right,--_the right of every sane and loving mother to possess her own child_.

But now, as I stood on the sidewalk, dry-eyed, waving goodbye to my child and answering the kisses which she blew to me through the small rear window of the motor car, I scarcely dared to think. Was I really a crusader after all? Was there aught to assuage the grief of a mother who had struggled against odds to hold her child and had failed? Was there a ray of hope to light the coming day? Must I return again to emptiness, to loneliness, to sorrow, to pain? Was it right that _they_, who had never known the glory of my sweetheart’s smile as a father, should deny his daughter her birthright as a Harding? Did God give only to deprive? No! “Every mountain shall be made low and every valley shall be exalted.” Wherefore, then, Pride? I must be humble. Resentment? I must forgive! Hatred? I must love. Retaliation? “Do good to them which despitefully use you.” And even as I struggled to give these healing thoughts an abiding place in my consciousness, there came before me the face of him I love, and clearly I saw his lips move, and heard the incomparably sweet voice--“Courage, dearie!”

_170_

I haven’t a great deal to add to my story. The futility of pressing the Hardings for recognition of their brother’s child was clearly apparent to me. I gradually drew the sympathies of several men and women of standing, who felt that I had a distinct cause to sponsor, and their advices from then on have been for the most part followed.

Shortly after the departure of my sister and her husband and my child came a request from my landlady to vacate the apartment we had been occupying, because I had been unable to meet the full rent the previous month and could not promise a definite day of payment. I had been frank to tell her so.

My mother had found employment on Long Island for the summer. I was forced to take a single room again. This I did, being able to secure the same one-room-and-bath which I had occupied the previous summer, within walking distance from my office. However, I felt very badly about not being able to finish the payment of my rent, and once more, having this and many other obligations to meet, I wrote Tim Slade under date of June 26, 1926, as follows:

“This month finds me terribly in need of help. Many disappointing things have happened since you were here. I seem to be eternally slated for disappointments.”

I heard nothing, however, from Tim, and determined then that I would never again approach him for help he was in no wise obligated to give. On July 2nd came another $40 from Daisy Harding, this time enclosed in an envelope with no accompanying letter. It was in the form of a cashier’s check from the Marion County Bank Company. I wrote to Miss Harding and thanked her sincerely for the check. I applied it upon “back bills” immediately.

_171_

The work I was doing turned my thoughts toward literary effort, and I found myself once more attempting to write. The necessary funds were not forthcoming for a night summer course in literature at Columbia, and anyway the heat was not conducive to comfortable journeying uptown every third night. But I rented a typewriter and spent my evenings creatively at home. This was a great source of relaxation mentally, and on warm nights, when it seemed too sultry to retire, I would become oblivious to the heat and to fatigue as I sat before my typewriter, balancing this line and that, searching the dictionary for suitable synonyms, or turning to my beloved Keats for poetic atmosphere and delicacy of word manipulation.

Naturally the themes of my thoughts were my love for Warren Harding and my love for our child. It was upon such a night that I sat before my typewriter, reminiscently fondling my child and dwelling in the memory of her father, and wrote my visions into a poem. I had sat dreaming for hours before I touched the typewriter keys, but when I began to write at one o’clock in the morning, and lost myself in juggling lovingly the words which would best convey my thoughts, I felt, when a distant clock struck four, that I had really written some worth-while lines.

My belief was confirmed later by _The New York Times_ poetry editor, who accepted and published the poem within ten days after I had made up my mind to send it to him. This was, however, not until late August. It was published in the _Times_ of August 30th, 1926, under a partial _nom de plume_--“Ninon Britton.” For this poem I received a check from the _Times_ for $20 which I promptly had photostated, because it was the first money I had ever received for literary effort. The editor changed my title, “Her Eyes,” to “The Child’s Eyes.” The lines follow:

THE CHILD’S EYES

Sometimes her eyes are blue as deep sea-blue, And calm as waters stilled at evenfall. I see not quite my child in these blue eyes, But him whose soul shines wondrously through her. Serene and unafraid he was, and knew How to dispel the fears in other hearts, Meeting an anxious gaze all tranquilly: These are her father’s eyes.

Sometimes her eyes are blue--the azure blue Of an October sky on mountain-tops. I do not see my child in these blue eyes; They are the eyes of him whose spirit glowed With happiness of soul alone which lies Far deeper than the depths of bluest eyes-- Whose smile a thing of joy it was to see: These eyes, this smile, are his.

Sometimes her eyes are of a tired gray-blue, Filled with the sadness of an age-old world. And then again my child’s not in these eyes; These are the eyes of one whom grief assailed, Whom disappointment crushed with its great weight. Around his head a halo memory casts, Reflecting that refiner’s fire which purged Him clean, and made him what he was.

Sometimes in child-amaze and wonder-blue Her baby eyes are lifted up to mine. These only are the eyes she brought with her. And so I fold her close within my arms And talk of dolls, and stars, and mother-love, For well I know that pitifully soon She will be grown, and then her eyes will hold Only the deeper lights--his own eyes knew!

--_Reprinted by permission of The New York Times._

[Illustration: A favorite portrait]

_172_

Those who have not known Warren Harding intimately--and I feel with all gratitude and humbleness that I was privileged to know him more intimately than any other human being--cannot fully appreciate those “deeper lights” of his eyes. They were expressive of the heights of every emotion experienced by a human heart, and of the greatest sadnesses ever written into the life of a man. I have read in their depths these as well as varying intermediate expressions. When he spoke to me of our child there was in his eyes the longing for open, acknowledged fatherhood, and my heart cried out against the cruelties of both the political and social orders which prevented Warren G. Harding from ever once looking into the eyes of his own little girl. The great pity of it! The injustice of a man-made law which would impose the necessity for renunciation of a desire so natural, so fine, and so normally impelling as that implanted in his heart as her parent!

“Nan darling,” he would say, “I find myself longing to take little girls in my arms. I never used to feel so deeply moved,” and with this sweet confession there was wistfulness and pathos in his eyes. And so, on the way home from my visits to the White House, I would resolve that he _should_ see her, even if I had to take her at Easter-time when _all_ little children were permitted to play and roll eggs on the White House lawn. He might even pick her up and fondle her unremarked!

In my Harding book of clippings the following appears in a paper of March 28, 1921, a few days after Easter:

“President Harding was a witness of the happy childhood panorama before him, and he took part in a pretty incident shortly before the gates were opened to the children.

“Little Winifred Hiser, six years old, in a new spring dress, and bearing on her arm a basket of eggs, waited in the walk leading from the White House to the executive offices. She is a daughter of an employe of the boiler rooms. As she stood there the President came down the path to his office, intent on starting his daily work.

“Perhaps she epitomized for the President the great crowd of children which shortly were to shout and run and laugh through the grounds. President Harding bent down and kissed the little maid twice, and asked her about the fine time she was going to have.”

But such an experience for his own little girl never seemed possible. It might have, but for Fear, that monster that hounded us continually, and finally made him I loved the victim of its vicious poisoning. Fear of exposure! Fear of the Republican Party! Fear of the Democratic Party! Fear of society’s condemnation! Fear of our respective families! Fear of a national scandal! Yes, fear it was that stayed the hand of Warren Harding, and fear it was that prevented the realization of the holy dream I had visualized as sweetheart and mother. I used to think that if only I could see her go on his lap, and hear him talk to her in the kindly, sweet voice I used to hear him use when he talked with children everywhere, I would be the proudest and most completely happy woman in God’s world. It made my throat ache so terribly just to think of the apparent hopelessness of my hopes. It made the whole attempt at secrecy so unworthwhile, so really _wrong_, so unnecessary! And, above all, so futile in the face of its unfair demands upon us.

_173_

Upon completion of the poem, “The Child’s Eyes,” before I had submitted it for publication, I sent Daisy Harding a copy, but I included no letter and made no comment. Under date of July 16th, 1926, I received a letter from her which in tone differed from some of her recent communications. It was more like the _real_ Daisy Harding I know and love.

She wrote that as she finished reading my poem she both thought and said aloud, “beautiful!” “Perhaps it is in the full of poetry your talent lies. Real poetry must come through true inspiration and it is evident, very evident, in this one,” she wrote. Other paragraphs were taken up with discussion of her doings, mainly, she wrote, in getting back her health. She said frankly that she was glad I appreciated the money she had been sending me each month because she denied herself to send it. The investments she had made had not turned out at all well and she and her husband were having “many blue hours” over them. Would I please send her Elizabeth’s address? “I see where Alice Copeland has sued for divorce. Unfortunate,” was a piece of information which interested me. Alice Copeland (Guthery) was a schoolmate of mine, daughter of a prominent Marion lawyer. She it was who said to me in November of 1920, when I went to Marion simultaneously with Mr. Harding’s overwhelming-majority election, “Nan, do you remember when we were kids in school you used to say Warren Harding would be President?” _Did_ I remember!...

I was riding in Marion with this same Alice Copeland one day back in our Freshman high school days in 1910. Alice was driving the electric runabout which always identified her those days. We passed the Warren Harding home on Mt. Vernon Avenue. Alice observed my excitement with relish: Mr Harding sat with his wife on their front porch! Having passed the house once, she proceeded to turn around to pass it the second time. And, as Mr. and Mrs. Harding smiled again and waved, Alice said to me, “There he is, Nan! There’s your hero! Look at him--quick!... Nan, why don’t you ‘set your cap’ for Mr. Harding anyway? You’re so crazy about him ... and Mrs. Harding is sick most of the time!” Alice always meant these things to be amusing and we all accepted them in the spirit in which they were said. But I never forgot that, and one time I repeated it to Mr. Harding. He smiled and said, “Well, you ‘got’ me all right, you darling!”

_174_

On July 22nd, 1926, I answered Daisy Harding’s letter:

“DEAREST MISS HARDING:

It was indeed gratifying to read that you liked the poem. I don’t want you ever to forget that it was under your instruction that I developed a love of poetry and literature; and I love you for having made so attractive to me the work I now want to do....

You will be sorry to learn that I could not continue my winter regime through the summer, but had to allow E. A. to return with Elizabeth and Scott when they motored out. My landlady requested that I vacate because I could not meet my rent, which I am still endeavoring to liquidate.

For your information, I might say that unless the knowledge has reached them from some other source, Elizabeth and Scott are entirely ignorant of the fact that I have ever talked with you or other members of your family on the subject of E. A., and unless you have a particular reason for wishing to acquaint E. and S. with the situation, I would suggest that it might be well not to tell them; it was, however, Elizabeth’s suggestion to me long ago that I tell you, but before doing so I had to persuade myself deliberately that it was what _he_ would want me to do, and I did not advise them when I did so. Moreover, I am, as you know, ... Elizabeth Ann’s legal guardian until she becomes of age, and as such I should be the sole individual to be consulted. This simplification of responsibility is very agreeable to me as a mother.

The paragraph immediately preceding has been a bit difficult for me to phrase, but I know you will understand my spirit in the matter. You will probably be glad to know that E. A. is to be on the farm this summer, because it would have been quite outside the realm of the possible for me personally to afford the country for her--this summer. Elizabeth may be addressed at Keithsburg, Illinois, care of A. L. Willits....

Too bad about Alice Guthery; but what is better than separation where there is discord?...

The other night I dined with one of the men about whom I spoke to you in March, and he tells me he has apparently lost $50,000, more or less, in Florida--but that he has well-grounded hopes of recovering it. It seems everybody just has to “hang on.” I certainly hope that the natural resources and realities of the State, and their natural development in spite of the temporary setback due to florid speculation, may enable you to realize satisfactorily on all the money you have put in down there.

[Illustration]

With love to you ever, and hoping to hear from you as the impulse comes to write, I am,

Affectionately yours, NAN”

Perhaps the letter I received from Daisy Harding on August 9th in answer to the foregoing might not have aroused in me the rebellious spirit I felt had it not epitomized the pitiful futility of attempting to argue for right for right’s sake when a false sense of right satisfies a people enslaved by a superficial conventionality. _The social fundamentals were all wrong._

In this letter, Daisy Harding voiced unconsciously the probable negative decision of the whole Harding family toward my situation, as well as the attitude of our whole country toward unwedded mothers and their children.

“I do hope you can make, some day, a name for yourself,” she wrote. “Then you will have something to offer her for what you have denied her ... she must suffer, and suffer deeply and bitterly when she knows all....” I stared back at these sentences which seemed to stand out in the letter, taunting me with their cruel injustice. “... _something to offer her for what you have denied her_”! Why, all _I_ had denied my child was the knowledge of her parentage, and the privilege that knowledge carried of openly bestowing upon my child the love only a mother is capable of bestowing. And this latter denial on my part would cease as soon as the Hardings recognized and assumed their just obligation toward their brother’s child. She wrote as though I might be a common woman, one whose life did not justify the role of motherhood, a woman who must redeem herself through fame before she could merit the God-given gift of her child!

My daughter “suffer” when she learned that she was the beloved child of a love-union between her mother and the 29th President of the United States! There does not live the person who could convince me of that, and I am willing to undertake the responsibility of rearing my child, even in her extreme youth, _with the full knowledge of who she is_, for it will not lessen by one jot the love which she bears to me--her mother.

“I am so glad you let E. A. go to her grandmother’s ... if she were my child I’d let stay there for the next two years. I believe _he_ would say the same....” Keep her in the country, away from me, for two years! A cruel suggestion! That my sweetheart, who had been willing, yea, eager to do anything in his power to enable me to be with my baby and to have her with me, would concede that his sister’s suggestion was the right thing was in my eyes only a pitiful thought to prop an argument which had been born of a frightened mind, and was in truth a mere apology for failure on the part of all the Hardings to act fairly toward Elizabeth Ann.

Miss Harding said my child should have the “quiet, fresh air and childish freedom” the country affords. This was exactly my idea, as it would be the idea of any mother, but _I wanted to be with her_, and this the Hardings were unwilling to make possible to me. I had therefore been obliged to let her go away from me because I myself was unable to provide those things which I knew were for her good.

Miss Harding’s query in this letter as to how the money had been transferred to my sister Elizabeth was entirely superfluous in view of the fact that I had made it very plain to her and to her brother that all monies had been transferred through me, personally, from Mr. Harding to my sister and her husband. As a matter of fact, I had _insisted_ upon this myself as my idea of added protection to Mr. Harding. I had even given his brother, Dr. Harding, the dates of certain cancelled vouchers, for which he asked during our interview. “Was the money sent through some bank in Ohio?” Miss Harding inquired in her letter. This was evidently why she had asked for Elizabeth’s address--to make the inquiry direct to her. Even then there was current gossip which touched some of the government officials in high places when Mr. Harding was President. Was her query instigated by those who themselves would not ask me direct, but sought to allay their fears through information I might give to Miss Harding? I had no way of knowing.

Her letter contained another sentence which hurt me but at the same time aroused in me more resentment than I had known during the whole course of my appeal to the Hardings. She wrote, “I heard of a case the other day, where a woman of means thought she could defy the conventions, but she is realizing now what it means to her son....” To quote to me an example of what a “woman of means” was realizing through her indulgence in unconventionality was highly grotesque when at that very minute I was staggering under the weight of bills long overdue, even to being unable to send my sister any money toward my child’s fall clothes. The utter incongruity of a situation where there existed an amplitude of funds, as was evident with the “woman of means,” and my own situation, where I was unable to meet the rent for the apartment which was sheltering the child of Warren G. Harding, is apparent without any comment from me.

Nor had I, up to that time, even attempted to “defy the conventions” _openly_! In what way could I more meekly have conducted myself, both in the expenditure of nervous energy required to protect the great-hearted man I loved, and, in the later days after his death, in my efforts to carry on alone and practically unaided, that I might not be obliged to go to the Hardings and request to have the situation righted. This would have been justified, even while my daughter’s father lived, _had mere money been my paramount consideration_. Open defiance of conventions could have yielded me no greater suffering than had the growing realization of the hypocrisy which calls itself Justice and marks out its path according to its own narrow-minded limitations.

Daisy Harding, I am sure, did not believe to be true certain things which she wrote--unconscious imputations of past wrong-doing on my part--for she herself had spoken her true feeling when, upon my first revelations to her, she had said, “Why, Nan, I’ll bet that was brother Warren’s greatest joy!” _That_ was the _real_ Daisy Harding speaking. And this sentiment so early and frankly expressed by her would be the sentiment of all who dare to speak truthfully.

The signature of this letter was merely “Lewis,” written in a somewhat different hand and with paler ink. When I came to look at it closely and realized anew how terrified people become who are afraid to face situations and refuse to stand for Right, the bitter resentment I felt because of her insinuations gave place to pity.

_175_

What a sorry state of affairs for the greatest country on earth! The Harding attitude was but the universal social attitude toward all unwedded mothers: that they have sinned against society and must suffer the penalty. Indeed, do not ministers all over the country preach this to a public willing to accept it, because, in most individual instances, either temptation has not been experienced or else, being experienced and indulged, has not resulted in actual childbirth? And so this attitude is generally accepted as Right.

My own situation, which differed and was distinguished only because it concerned the child of a man who had been placed in the highest position the greatest republic in the world can offer, led me to the conclusion that it was high time it was righted, and that little children should be recognized, not for their parental origin, but for themselves and _as having every right to legitimacy_, and to every opportunity that would be theirs if they had been born under the yoke of legal marriage.

In the chapter entitled “Social Justice,” in Warren G. Harding’s book, “Our Common Country,” he says: “It will not be the America we love which will neglect the American mother and the American child.”

If every man, woman and child were to ask this question: “Would _I_ like to suffer ignominy, neglect, social slights, and unfair recognition because _my_ mother and father had not been linked by the bonds of conventional wedlock?” I am sure that the vehemence of the united “NO!” would resound to the farthest corners of the country, and that a people, drawn together through great human sympathy and Christlike forgiveness, would unite to wipe out every stain upon the motherhood of a nation through measures designed to _protect and honor every mother’s child_!

[Illustration: The author in 1926]

There would then be laws governing such protective rights, there would be frank and unashamed admission of fatherhood, and there would be abstinence of indulgence where there existed unwillingness to make such admissions, and equal advantages for the so-called illegitimate as well as the legitimate; and there would be no more shifting of responsibility upon the mother or upon her family.

And if I could, through my revelations, cause my daughter, as well as thousands of potential mothers in the world, to recognize the gross injustice humanity imposes through adherence to a social ruling which is doing nothing in the right direction and much in the wrong, then, indeed, we would have an array of intelligence raised against the present system, in whose place would be demanded such legal measures as would banish forever the heart-break of myriad lovers and their true love-children.

I would not change the world. I would not preach recognition of indiscriminate indulgence where admission of parenthood is denied. I would not ask anything which is not humanly and divinely right and possible. But I would, if it were within my humble prerogative and power, as the mother of Warren Gamaliel Harding’s only child, open the eyes of those blinded through adherence to hypocrisies which are basely unfair, and I would bear the glorious fact of what constitutes true birth legitimacy--which, in a word, is _love_.

_176_

It would have availed nothing to answer Daisy Harding’s letter. Had there existed the slightest intention on the part of the Hardings to take up the problem left unsolved by their lamented brother, I would long before this have learned of their intentions. Nor would my failure to answer this last letter of Miss Harding’s have debarred them from concluding whatever plans they were advancing toward the upkeep and maintenance of their niece.

Warren Harding’s empty wallet, given me by his sister, Carrie Votaw, was indeed a symbol, unconscious and voiceless. But to me it spoke eloquently of the universal empty pity, empty sympathy, empty love.

My not answering Miss Harding’s letter provided escape for all. So far as I was concerned the whole Harding attitude had been summed up in the last paragraph of Miss Harding’s letter, “I should like to have sent you some money ... but I couldn’t ... on account of bills I had to pay.”

I would not have felt justified in ever approaching the Harding family had not that very source of income which had fallen, for the most part at least, into the hands of those who had not known it before his death, been the one from which Mr. Harding had drawn the monthly allowance which he gave into my hands for the care of our child. Surely my child and his had a title as clear as that of his brothers and sisters to the generosity he had shown in making his will--a title as clear as the worded legacies which bore Mr. Harding’s signature.

I know nothing whatever about Mr. Harding’s will as it actually stands. I have never inquired into it. I am ignorant also of what has gone on about me since the revelation of my story to certain individuals, except as I have stated it in this book. My fact-story is set down just as the events occurred. The intimate details of Mr. Harding’s death are also shrouded in mystery except as the papers gave them forth. If I were to state my belief, I would say that his passing was entirely untimely, and could have been avoided as truly as could the necessity for this story have been avoided had the laws of the United States provided for the legal protection and social equalization of all children.

According to materia medica, Warren Harding died as the direct result of a cerebral hemorrhage and indirectly from ptomaine poisoning. But I, the mother of his only child, have never for one moment entertained such a thought. I believe that under the burden of fatherhood which he revered but dared not openly confess, combined with the responsibility of the welfare of the nation he loved, the twenty-ninth President of the United States truly laid down his life for his people. He died of a broken heart. And through the voice of the child he loved may there arise a diviner and more lasting memorial to his memory than any reared by human hands,--the answer to the plea from the heart of a mother,--_social justice for all little children_!

THE END

[Illustration]

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Transcriber’s note

Typographical and punctuation errors have been silently corrected.