By midsummer it was clear that the campaign would be a hard one. James G. Blaine, the Republican candidate, was a popular figure. Grover Cleveland, Democratic candidate, was hardly known outside his own state. But the issues were not fought around two personalities.
When Douglass returned to Washington in August he heard about Miss Amelia.
“She wasn’t sick at all,” Helen told him.
“Why didn’t you let me know? I would have come.” Douglass was deeply distressed.
“There was no time. She wouldn’t have wanted us to call you from your work when there was nothing you could do.” She spoke gently as to an unhappy child, but her eyes were filled with tears.
And Douglass, beholding the understanding and compassion that lay in her blue eyes, could not look away. A minute or an hour—time did not matter, for the meaning of many years was compressed in that instant. No word was said, their hands did not touch, but in that moment the course of their lives changed.
Helen spoke first, a little breathlessly.
“Mr. Haley is breaking up the house. I’d—I’d like to take my vacation, now that you’re back. I’ll—I’ll go home for a little while.”
He had turned away, his hand shifting the papers on his desk. He did not look at her.
“Miss Pitts, may I—May I call to see you this evening?” he asked.