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.
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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.