_52_
I wanted very much to see Mr. Harding, of course, not having been with
him since June, and when I wrote to him in Marion that I would leave
Chicago for our home town the night of election and see him there, I
immediately had his hearty approval and his worded assurance by letter
that he was “hungry” to see me. That was the word he used.
At campaign headquarters they knew of my intended visit to Marion and,
before I left, Mr. Witt handed me a letter of appreciation. I have this
letter pasted in my Harding scrapbook. It commends my “faithfulness,
efficiency and initiative” in the campaign work at the Republican
National Headquarters. I do not remember how Mr. Witt happened to
give me this letter, but I recall very vividly one story which the
Ohio Democrats, in casting about for propaganda, were endeavoring to
circulate. It stirred me to such bitter indignation that my expressed
desire to work overtime, or all night if necessary, to effect its
immediate repudiation, may have been so marked as to excite wonder on
the part of those about me. The remembrance of my zealous belligerence
may have prompted Mr. Witt’s letter of appreciation.
The story to which I allude had to do with the propaganda of a
statement that Mr. Harding’s family had a strain of colored blood in
their veins. I do not know how the promoters supported their story
nor whence its origin; I only know that my being revolted at such a
suggestion. The first time it reached my ears was one morning when my
boss at campaign headquarters received an out-of-town telephone call,
apprising him that such a story had been circulated in that particular
town, and requesting suitable literature as a means of refutation. Well
I remember how he turned to us in the office, repeating what had been
said to him over the phone, and how someone in the office said, “Tell
them it’s a damned lie,” and how I reiterated with all the intensity of
one who knew better than anyone else the falsity of such story, “Yes,
tell them it’s a _damned lie_!” I was defending my own baby.
The following day as I entered the headquarters I found, stacked
outside along the corridor and inside our offices, great piles of
genealogical sheets, tracing, in diagram form, the Harding stock back
to Stephen Harding, who was born about 1624.
It is needless to comment upon the reaction of this piece of unfair and
unsuccessful propaganda. All one needs to do is to recall the Harding
majority, unprecedented in the history of national elections.
_53_
The evening of the election, November 2nd, 1920 (Mr. Harding’s
birthday), I took a midnight train for Marion, Ohio, with a view to
returning to New York and even possibly to the United States Steel
Corporation. I had an idea if I could get back to New York I might work
out some plan whereby I could have our baby with me, though my ideas as
to how such a plan would develop were vague. My sister Elizabeth again
promised to watch over her for me, and I myself planned to return to
Chicago for Christmas anyway. But the hurt I experience every time I
leave Elizabeth Ann is a hurt of indescribable poignancy, just as the
homesickness I experience in being separated from her is torture in the
raw, like a thing one can stand only so long before breaking.
My train pulled into Marion about seven the following morning. About
half-past six I called the porter and asked with pardonable excitement
in spite of inward assurance, “Well, porter, who is our new President?”
He grinned from ear to ear. “Harding’s the man, Miss,” he replied. I
sprang out of bed with a thumping heart and dressed quickly.
Everybody in Marion had been up all night and had only just retired
about six that morning. So I was informed by the first girl friend I
telephoned upon my arrival. She herself had just gotten into bed. So I
told her to return to her sleep, and, in spite of her insistence that
I come right up to her home, I went to the Marion Hotel for the time
being. I had told none of my friends of my coming and did not intend to
impose upon them, but when I talked with Mrs. Sinclair over the phone
she said she would not permit me to remain even for one night in the
hotel, where I had, by this time, settled myself and had my breakfast.
She told me to go out to her sister’s, because she herself had company.
I did not call up Daisy Harding until the next day, knowing she must be
exhausted with excitement and company.
Mrs. Sinclair’s sister lived on a street in which several houses had
been converted into temporary clerical headquarters during the famous
Front Porch campaign period, and she lived beyond these houses in the
house almost at the end of the street.
_54_
I wanted to see Mr. Harding first of all, and so I telephoned Tim
Slade, the secret service man whom I had first met at Eagle Bay, and
asked him to make an engagement with Mr. Harding for me. I met Mr.
Slade, who was also bodyguard to the President-elect, that evening in
front of the post office and he took me out East Church Street and Mt.
Vernon Avenue and down to a little house where Mr. Harding soon met
me. It was one of the houses I have spoken of which were used by the
campaign clerical forces, and the sun parlor into which I first entered
was filled with desks and papers. Evidences of great activity were
apparent.
Tim Slade stood outside the front door and I had to wait only a few
moments for Mr. Harding. He came up the short flight of steps and
entered the door which Tim held open for him.
“Why, good evening, Nan!” he said. The door was closed behind him and
we were alone. We went into the room on the left, which had evidently
been used as a dining-room when the house was occupied as a home. The
shades had already been drawn down, but Mr. Harding whispered to me as
he greeted me with kisses that we would be wiser to go on out into the
kitchen. The kitchen was almost totally dark except for the shaft of
light which came from under the swinging door we had just come through.
We stumbled around until we found a chair where Mr. Harding could sit
and hold me on his lap.
After affectionate greetings, I exclaimed softly, “Oh, sweetheart,
isn’t it _won_derful that you are President!” He held me close, kissing
me over and over again. Our eyes were now becoming accustomed to the
darkness and I could see his face dimly outlined. Oh, how dear he
was! I repeated my exclamation. “Isn’t it _won_derful that you are
President!” He looked at me some time before he answered. Then his
“Um ... say, dearie, do you love me!” showed me that the glories of
a victorious hero were submerged in the grander glories of a lover’s
delight in being with his woman. “_This_ is the best thing that’s
happened to me lately, dearie!” he whispered.
“How’s our little girl?” he asked when I had settled myself back in his
arms for the talk I knew would be all too short. It delighted me to
tell him all about Elizabeth Ann. Even then I had some snapshots and
the first baby picture she had had taken. I showed them to him after
we had again come back to the light of the dining-room. “Thought you
said her ears were _flat against her head_!” he teased with an adorable
smile. I observed then for probably the first time that the camera had
not so registered. “But they really _are_!” I affirmed.
[Illustration: Elizabeth Ann at six months]
Then we talked of other things and Mr. Harding gave me two (or maybe
three--I cannot remember) $500 bills. “Now, put these away, Nan, where
they’ll be safe--where are you going to keep them?” he asked, as I
opened my mesh-bag and lightly dropped them into it. “Oh, I’ll take
care of them all right, darling,” I assured him, as I thanked him for
what I told him was far more than I should need. I had always found
that with his letters I experienced a greater sense of safety when I
carried them with me constantly than when I left them at home in a
dresser drawer, so I decided I would do the same with this large amount
of money.
While Mr. Harding and I stood there, he getting out the bills for me,
I glanced down at the array of papers on the desk or table in front of
me. The paper on top caused me to look at them more closely; they were
concerning Mrs. Harding’s first marriage to Mr. DeWolfe, and stated
that she had been obliged to obtain a divorce because of Mr. DeWolfe’s
intemperance in drink. I read further to the end of the page and a
wave of sympathy for Mrs. Harding swept over me. I knew of her son by
Mr. DeWolfe and of how they said he had followed in the footsteps of
his unfortunate father, and it really grieved me to think how one’s
personal sorrows must be unearthed to be made the topic for discussion
by a gossipy public. And the enormity of Mr. Harding’s secret and mine
again possessed me as I thought triumphantly, “They haven’t got _our_
story!” And when I spoke of this to Mr. Harding he agreed with me that
Providence had protected us.
Mr. Harding left ahead of me, returning to his home only about a block
away. Of course Tim Slade did not know that I was far better acquainted
with every corner of Marion than he ever could be, and when he asked
me where I was going I told him I was going out on East Center Street
to see a girl chum of mine. I do not remember in whose car we drove,
probably one of the official cars that were at Tim’s disposal, but
I remember we drove out East Church Street and Tim let me out at a
particular corner which was a block or so away from the home I intended
visiting that evening.
_55_
It was the following day or the day after that I went out to see Miss
Daisy Harding. She had as a guest in their home her sister’s daughter,
the daughter of Mrs. Charity Remsberg of California, the sister to whom
Mr. Harding had told me he would not hesitate to confide our secret.
Miss Harding’s niece looks remarkably like her Aunt Daisy. It was
during one of my visits with Miss Harding, perhaps while I was visiting
with her during her lunch hour at high school where of course she was
still teaching, that I told her I had a picture of Mr. Harding which I
wanted him to autograph. I thought it better to ask him to autograph it
with Miss Harding present. She immediately said she was sure he would
do it for me and suggested that we walk over to the headquarters and
see him after her school hours, some evening.
The headquarters, Mr. Harding’s office, was in the residence next
door to his own home on Mt. Vernon Avenue, the former home of the
Christians, George B. Christian being his private secretary. If Tim
Slade ever exhibited a look of surprise over anything that he had
witnessed up until then, or that he has known since, certainly it has
never surpassed the look of surprise that registered upon his face when
he beheld Nan Britton approaching the Harding Headquarters with Daisy
Harding. He stood stock-still for a moment. Of course I did not appear
to know him. We learned upon inquiry that Mr. Harding was with Mr. Will
Hays, who had managed his campaign. “Let’s walk around outside and
peek in the window,” suggested Miss Harding. This we did, leaving the
picture with someone in charge who said they would see that Mr. Harding
autographed it for me in due time. Through the window we could see Mr.
Harding at his desk in earnest conversation with Mr. Hays whose back
was toward us. How we attracted the President-elect’s attention I do
not remember, but Mr. Hays turned and looked out and smiled and Mr.
Harding immediately came out the side door. We shook hands formally,
and I thought Mr. Harding looked slightly annoyed; perhaps he was.
Anyway I asked him if he would mind autographing the picture for me.
It was a photograph he had found in his desk in the Senate office (so
he told me in New York in 1917) and had said to himself when he found
it, “I’m going to give this picture to Nan,” and Miss Harding and her
family had agreed it was the best likeness they had ever seen when I
showed it to them before taking it over for his autograph. “Where did
you get that picture. Nan?” inquired Miss Harding, “I have never seen
one like it.” I think I told her I had gotten it at the Republican
Headquarters in Chicago. It is possibly one of perhaps a very few
copies in existence. I have never seen one except my own.
After talking with us a few moments, Mr. Harding walked back into the
office and Miss Harding and I went downtown. Frank, the chauffeur
the Hardings had for so many years, was just ready to go down in the
President-elect’s official car and he drove us.
A few days later I obtained from the headquarters my own special
photograph of Mr. Harding, duly autographed in the handwriting which
was so familiar to me. I remember Miss Harding inspected it closely and
said, “Yes, that’s his writing all right,” indicating that he had not
given it to a possible copyist to do for him. Could she have known of
the thousands of words her brother had written to me! On the bottom of
the photograph he had inscribed, “To Miss Nan Britton, with the good
wishes of a Marion neighbor and friend, Sincerely, Warren G. Harding.”
[Illustration: This photograph was conventionally inscribed to the
author in Marion, Ohio, after Mr. Harding’s nomination for the
Presidency in November of 1920]
_56_
Those were exciting days for Marion, Ohio. I remained in our home town
visiting various friends of mine for about two weeks, long enough
I remember to harm me physically, for I tried my best to be one of
the “devils” into which it seemed that a good many of the younger
society people had developed during the campaign period. I was almost
back in the weakened condition I had partially pulled myself out of
through early-to-bed hours in Chicago. However, I was determined upon
proceeding to New York.
While in Marion, I kept the $500 bills in my silver mesh-bag, as I
have already stated. This was, I must say, more money than I had ever
received from Mr. Harding at one time, but I had told him that I wanted
to buy a coat, and that one item might require a goodly part of one
of the $500 bills. I remember one night when I was visiting Annabel
Mouser Fairbanks, we had been up well into the morning, and when I
retired I very carelessly, though not intentionally so by any means,
left my mesh-bag downstairs on the chair where I had been sitting
during the evening, “keeping it right with me.” Wilfred Schaffner and
John Fairbanks, Annabel’s husband, remained up playing cards long after
Annabel and I had retired. The next day John said to me, “Say, you are
a fine one to leave a bunch of money around like that? You can see
right through that mesh-bag! Don’t you know we never lock our doors?
What are you going to do with all that money, anyway?” I explained
it was money I was to invest for my brother-in-law in stocks when I
reached New York.
About the middle of November I reached New York and stayed two weeks
with a girl friend, whose apartment was at the Poinciana at Amsterdam
and 120th Street, the apartment where Mr. Harding and I went to spend
an afternoon in January of 1919.
Although I did look into the matter of positions while in New York,
my enthusiasm about actually taking a position waned with my fading
strength, and at the end of two weeks, thinking myself in no physical
condition to remain in the East alone, and having consulted a doctor
who confirmed my belief and ordered me back to Chicago to complete rest
for a month at least, I took the train back to that city.
However, I did buy a squirrel coat and some Christmas gifts for my
family and for Mrs. Woodlock and her daughter Ruth and Aunt Emma, which
shopping expeditions took all my surplus strength.
It seems to me that Mr. and Mrs. Harding and some friends of theirs
went South during the month of December, 1920, to visit the Scobeys,
returning to Marion about a month later. Of the Scobeys I have already
spoken. Mr. Harding and I had discussed them as possible foster
parents for our baby who had not been born when we had entertained
such thoughts. About the middle of January Mr. Harding wrote to me
from Marion, suggesting that we endeavor to hit upon a suitable
plan of action in connection with settling more or less permanently
the all-important question of Elizabeth Ann. That question had been
paramount in my thoughts. It was probably the main cause of my
continued physical weakness; and I agreed with him that something would
have to be done.
_57_
The latter part of January Mr. Harding sent for my sister Elizabeth to
come to Marion to see him. When she returned to Chicago, she repeated
to me his almost desperate concern about a final, permanent arrangement
for caring for our child. She told me how they had discussed at length
the advisability from many angles of her taking Elizabeth Ann, and how
Mr. Harding had paced the floor of his office (the same office in the
Christian home where he had sat with Mr. Will Hays when his sister
and I had beckoned for him to come out) and said, “My God, Elizabeth,
you’ve got to help me!” She told me that he had said to her, “Nan is
just a child in many ways and must be guarded and guided,” a statement
I think I resented just a little because I felt I had thus far
engineered our secret safely. Mr. Harding told Elizabeth, “I would not
hesitate a minute to give you and Scott $300 or $400 a month to care
for Elizabeth Ann if you would adopt her.”
My sister on this occasion had taken with her a picture of Mr. Harding
to him to autograph for her. It was one of those for which he had posed
at Moffett’s in June of 1920, after which sittings he had rushed out
from Moffett’s to see me, and Elizabeth said that when she showed it
to Mr. Harding he said he preferred it to all the others taken at that
time. His autograph for Elizabeth is as follows:
“With greetings and good wishes to Mrs. Scott A. Willits, with that
high regard which goes to the daughter of a valued friend.