# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 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.
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"