At Emily’s corner Miss Gresham said, “I’ll take you home this once,” and left the car with her. As they went through the silent, empty street, their footsteps lightly echoing from house wall to house wall, Emily forgot her article and her other worriments in the foreboding of these midnight journeys alone. “It seems to me that I simply can’t,” she thought. “And yet I simply must—and of course I will. If only I had been doing it for a month, or even a week, instead of having to look forward to the first time.”
Miss Gresham took her to her door, then strode away down the street—an erect, resolute figure, business-like from head to heels. Emily looked after her with rising courage, “What a brave, fine girl she is,” she thought, “how intelligent, how capable. She is the kind of woman I have dreamt about.”
And she went in with a lightening heart.
CHAPTER IX.
AN ORCHID HUNTER.
THE first night that Emily ventured home alone a man spoke to her before she had got twenty feet from the car tracks. She had thought that if this should happen she would faint. But when he said, “It’s a pleasant evening,” she put her head down and walked steadily on and told herself she was not in the least frightened. It was not until she was inside her door that her legs trembled and her heart beat fast. She sank down on the stairs in the dark and had a nervous chill. And it was a very unhappy, discouraged, self-distrustful girl that presently crept shakily up to bed.
On the second night-journey she thought she heard some one close and stealthy behind her. She broke into a run, arriving at the door out of breath and ashamed of herself. “You might have been arrested,” said Miss Gresham when Emily confessed to her. “If a policeman had seen you, he’d have thought you were flying from the scene of your crime.”
A few nights afterwards a policeman did stop her. “You’ve got to keep out of this street,” he began roughly. “I’ve noticed you several times now.”
Instead of being humiliated or frightened, Emily became angry. “I’m a newspaper woman—on the Democrat,” she said haughtily, and just then he got a full view of her face and of the look in her eyes.
He took off his helmet. “Beg pardon, miss,” he said humbly, and with sincerity of regret. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t see you distinctly. I’ve got a sister that does night work. I ought to a knowed better.”
Emily made no reply, but went on. She was never afraid again, and after a month wondered how it had been possible for her to be afraid, and pitied women who were as timid and helpless as she had been. Whenever the policeman passed her he touched his hat. She soon noticed that it was not always the same policeman and understood that the first one had warned the entire force at the station house. Often when there were many loungers in the street the policeman turned and followed her at a respectful distance until she was home; and one rainy night he asked her to wait in the shelter of a deep doorway at the corner while he went across to a saloon and borrowed an umbrella. He gave it to her and dropped behind, coming up to get it at her door.