Part 33

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....

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.

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.