# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 85

I recall for many reasons that visit to the White House in January of 1923. Sometimes it recurs to me with such vividness that I long with all my heart to be able to forget it. Mr. Harding's letter conflicted greatly with the situation as I actually found it, and I had not been long with him when I saw that what I had taken literally as high hope on his part to be able to have me as of our old sweetheart days was really a dreamy lapse on his part into contemplation in writing of what he would love to do, rather than what he could do.
My reaction to his unwitting deception was such as to sink me immediately into a state of weeping, a bitter railing against fate, and complaint such as I had never allowed myself to voice on any previous visit to the White House no matter how low my spirits had been.
My preparations for this visit had been quite elaborate and extended not only to the purchase of a new neglige, but also to a lovely hat and dress and slippers. The dress was a stunning grey thing, and with it I wore a hat which I had purchased at Joseph's and for which I had paid $55. My slippers were high-heeled patent leather trimmed with grey suede. Mr. Harding helped to remove my squirrel coat and, as always, remarked in an adorably off-hand manner which was really intimate, "That's a very good-looking outfit, Nan!" Then he looked at me and said almost fiercely with that look which I always knew foretold a tremendous hug and many kisses, "You pretty thing!" But I did not feel in a dressy mood now that I knew the real situation with him.
We sat first in his private office, on the leather couch. I had brought with me, to show to Mr. Harding, a cunning doll which I had bought myself for Christmas, in company with the many dolls I had bought for Elizabeth Ann. It was really a doll's head mounted upon a stick, and for the doll's bodice there was a ​round music box, covered with a frock which came down nearly to the end of the stick. When one twirled the stick the frock stood out very stiffly and the doll appeared to be dancing and humming a tune. The tune was a little German folk-song, and it was this rather mournful melody which had attracted me; it somehow chimed in with my spirit of persistent melancholy.
"What 'ave y' got there, dearie?" asked Mr. Harding, looking down at the doll. The day, I remember, was not particularly bright, and he strained his eyes to look. I stopped crying and smiled wanly as I slowly twirled the dancing doll. The sweet sadness of the music seemed to fill the silent room. Mr. Harding smiled and took the doll out of my hands. "Sh! darling,—they can hear out there in the hall."
I suggested that we go into the ante-room. There Mr. Harding sat in the corner of the couch and faced the window. I could observe his face here, and I exclaimed, "Why, honey, what a terrible cold you have!" His eyes and nose were red from it, his face was deeply lined as I had never before seen it, and his drooping body expressed a dejection which was shocking to see. "Believe me," I told him, "if I had my way I'd see that you got into bed until you are rid of that cold." "Can't do it, dearie," he said briefly, "got to keep going—why, right now I am the cynosure of the whole world—'the President of the United States, with a sick wife'!"
"How is Mrs. Harding, anyway?" I inquired. But, though the First Lady of the Land lay not a block away, the subject of discussion, as Mr. Harding said, of the whole world, in my world her fate did not even seem to touch me. You see, my own problems eclipsed those of anybody and everybody.
"About the same," Mr. Harding replied to my query.
"Oh, dear!" I exclaimed, "I do hope she gets better and is able to go to Florida!" Mr. Harding smiled and bent over to kiss me. "I do, too, dearie!" he replied with an attempt at cheeriness. But the attempt was a failure. In truth, the whole atmosphere of that visit was one of finality. I felt a presentiment of much evil. I could not shake off the uncanny feeling I was ​experiencing. And I know something of that feeling communicated itself to Mr. Harding, if indeed he had not already experienced it with me from the beginning of our visit.
"Nan," Mr. Harding took my hand, "our matter worries me more than the combined worries of the whole administration. It is on my mind continually. Why, dearie," he continued with something akin to shame, "sometimes in the night I think I shall lose my mind worrying over it." Strange as it may seem, I could not then see why it should worry him so much. Had we not passed through the most critical stages of possible exposure? And had I not engineered the thing to the point of safety thus far? I asked him, with rather a spirit of resentment. I worried, too, I told him, but it was not from fear of exposure, but from the daily ghostly fear of living the rest of my life in such unhappiness as that adoption had brought to me. It harassed me almost to the point of insanity. I wanted my baby, I told him, bursting into tears.
Seeing me so distressed, Mr. Harding again tried to get hold of himself.
"Why, listen, darling, you are foolish to worry on that score. I have told you that after I am out of office I myself will take her—you'd give her to me, wouldn't you, sweetheart?" His attempt at a smile was pathetic. I crept over closer to him, heedless of the stalking guard outside the window.
"Oh, if you only could!" I breathed. But, I hastened to remind him, how could he when Mrs. Harding . . .
"You must remember, dearie, that Mrs. Harding is older than I, and very probably will pass on before I go, and if she goes first, remember, I myself will adopt Elizabeth Ann and make her a real Harding!" But, I argued, Elizabeth and Scott had already adopted her. Would they? . . . could he? . . . I was anxious to have him banish all my doubts.
"You leave that to me, Nan! I'll manage all that when the time comes. And in the meantime, you are to have ample funds, for them and for yourself. I expect to provide amply, in any event, for you and our little girl as long as you both live."
​"Honey, why do you have Dr. Sawyer?" I asked him, as he used his handkerchief. "My father used to make fun of him, really!" I informed him frankly. Mr. Harding's mouth twitched and registered a faint smile. Seeing I had not offended him, I continued. "I don't see why you have to consult the same doctor Mrs. Harding consults, anyway. If he were much of a doctor, he would put you to bed!"
"You'd take good care of me, wouldn't you, Nan?" he asked fondly. He bent over to kiss me. "I'm selfish to kiss you with this cold," he said, drawing back. "I don't want to give it to you!" and the semblance of a smile lighted his dear, tired face.
I kissed him very long in reply. "Say, sweetheart, I never got anything from you that wasn't good!" I told him, kissing him again. He stood up and took me in his arms in the corner away from the window. He used to draw his mouth into a certain shape when he made ready to kiss me, which somehow gave him and me the fullest rapture of the kiss. I have never read or heard of anyone else doing it. After we had returned to the couch he turned again to voicing his troubles.
"Nan," he confided to me, "I'm in debt right now $50,000, and I just can't seem to get out!" It occurred to me even then that this was a small amount for a President to owe, but I simply said how sorry I was, and that I would economize, and help a little bit that way. Somehow this promise seemed to amuse him, and his tone indicated that what he gave me was the least of his worries. "I don't care how much I give you, dearie," he said, with a caressing smile, "so long as you can account plausibly for it. I want you to have everything to make you comfortable. I only tell you these things that you may know what I'm up against down here." He rose and paced the little room. Somehow I had a feeling that he was not telling me the whole of his troubles. "Really, dearie," he said, slowly coming back to the couch, "my burdens are more than I can bear!" The tired face was lifted to the window and the tired eyes gazed wearily at the wintry vista outside.
The misery of that picture! The haggard face, the bent figure, ​the white head! Surely this was not the man who had come, at the call of a nation, to serve, and to "give all of heart, and mind, and abiding love of country to service in our common cause." My heart ached for him. Plainly, the disillusionments suffered in the Presidency of these United States were cruel. I said that I wished he might get out of it, resign, anything that would get him away from his worries, anything that would relieve this darling man who was being tortured with the slow stabs of disappointment and disillusionment. And they called this the greatest position in the land—this nerve-wrecking, energy-sapping job,—the Presidency of the United States!
President Harding shook his head sadly. "No, I'm in jail, Nan, and can't get out!"
He opened wider the door leading into his own office and we went in there again. The darkness of the day made our figures less visible over near the grate fireplace than they were in the ante-room, which was small and therefore quite light. Mr. Harding said his stenographer was at liberty to come in and ask about anything, but we'd "take a chance," anyway.
"Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart," I cried in his arms, "tell me, what constitutes happiness for me? What constitutes our happiness, darling?"
He kissed me tenderly.
"Work, dearie, work!" he whispered.
"But I do work! I want you! And I want our baby as mine! And I don't believe I can ever have you again in the same way. I can't stand it, darling! It is breaking my heart. My baby lost to me, and the world has my sweetheart!"
Then something within me suddenly rebelled at the irony of a fate which would give us so much and then make us both suffer with separation and denial. And I saw more clearly than ever before the real depths of my heart, and the real urge of my subconscious mind.
"There have lived some men who have given up everything for their sweethearts!" I challenged, standing away from him with head held high.
​A cruel thing to say! And a cowardly demand! He had given everything he could, everything, in fact, I had asked him to give within reason and within his power, and it was not now immediately within his power to give me our baby and to take me for his wife. And he had promised what he would do in the future. I was only making it very difficult for him, for him whose burdens were already, as he said, "more than he could bear." I began to regret that speech as soon as it was uttered. Even as the words escaped my lips, there flashed into memory the picture of my sweetheart, when he spoke at the Fairgrounds in Marion the previous summer, and warned a nation against this very sort of thing in words made immortal to me by him:
I am sure I did not imagine it; there was rebuke in his tones when he answered.
"Nan, I'm tied. I can do no more. And I cannot desert my party!" Then, in a softer tone, he added, "We can't retract—if you had been born earlier, Nan!" he sighed. I loved him for that and put my arms around his neck again. "Nan, darling, you must help me; our secret must not come out. Why, I would rather die than disappoint my party!" were his words. Then, seeing he had hurt me a bit by emphasizing his loyalty to a political party instead of to his sweetheart there in his arms, he smiled sadly and pleaded brokenly, "Oh, dearie, try!"
We went back to the couch.
I told Mr. Harding about my wish to quit working for President Walter Dill Scott and to go to school at Northwestern University instead. He said, "Fine!" immediately. "You like to study don't you, Nan?" he asserted rather than asked, and nodded his head approvingly. He said he'd keep me in school all of the time if I thought I could explain it satisfactorily. "What will your mother say, for instance?" he queried. I told him I didn't even try to explain things to mother. She was busy ​teaching, and I thought it would be entirely safe. "All right, you're the boss!" he said playfully.
Mr. Harding was in knickers, and I told him for about the dozenth time how stunning he looked. He smiled and said he thought maybe getting out into the open air after luncheon would help him to get rid of his cold. I told him it would very likely do him much more good than Dr. Sawyer's prescriptions. "Oh, well," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, "he doesn't doctor me much, you know; Mrs. Harding has lots of faith in him. Gee, Nan," and he shook his head in the I-give-it-up-it's-too-much-for-me-to-solve way, "they bother me to death as it is, looking at my tongue and feeling my pulse; why, a fellow can't be alone a minute! Now, what I really need is your treatment!" and he finished with a big hug and kiss.
Mr. Harding said it was time for him to go to luncheon and time for me to go, anyway, and I, pouting as usual when I had to leave him, rose with reluctance. For some reason which I do not remember, I was to meet my secret service escort on the conservatory side of the White House instead of outside Mr. Harding's office. So Mr. Harding said I could walk over with him, down the passage known as the "secret passage," I believe, and under the pergola. We lingered long inside the closed door, however, before we left the executive office. Little would I have actually believed, in spite of the chills of premonition I had experienced during that visit, that never again would we stand thus together upon this earth. Perhaps that was why we clung so to each other in our farewell embrace. And Mr. Harding's eyes, as well as my own, were wet. I shall never forget how he looked down at me, in the dim light of that room, and asked, as he so often did, that I say to him that I was happy now. "Are you happy now, dearie?" he asked softly, and with quivering lips and brimming eyes I bravely lied, "I am happy, sweetheart!"
We went out. Several feet behind us as we passed through the pergola came Brooks, returning evidently from an errand to the offices. I asked Mr. Harding who he was and he told me. In my brief glance backward I saw that his valet was a very good-​looking light colored man. This was the one and only time I ever saw the trustworthy servant in whose care I addressed so many letters to my sweetheart.
Laddie Boy came bounding out to meet his master as we reached the entrance to the White House proper, and Mr. Harding stooped to pat him. It seemed this was the kitchen entrance. Just inside the door a guard was stationed. The kitchen maids peered through the partly opened door upon us with curious glances. Mr. Harding indicated that his private elevator was on the left and turned to shake hands with me. I thanked him for the "conference" in quite audible tones and he bowed slightly over my hand. Then he left me and I proceeded to the conservatory.
That was the last time I ever saw Warren Gamaliel Harding, my sweetheart.