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WHY SHE LINGERED

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jun 11, 1896

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 22, No. 23.

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WHY SHE LINGERED.

By Helen A. Steinhauer

BY HELEN A. STEINHAUER.
Some years ago I was living in the house of a widow lady, whose lodgers for the most part boarded themselves, or else ate at a restaurant. One of these was a most unfortunate semi-invalid, who won my sympathy by her pitiful condition,—partially deaf, slightly crippled, wholly blind in one eye, and nearly so in the other. She was homeless and well-nigh friendless; for people wearied of her complaints; and, like many another solitary woman with time all her own, she gave it and her company rather more freely than was always convenient to those whose business was more pressing.
On the particular Sabbath morning of which I write she came into my room immediately after breakfast. I then was engaged in canvassing, and hence the hours of my one rest day were exceedingly precious to me; and I am afraid I had scant welcome to give my poor visitor, tho I strove to be kind and polite, notwithstanding.
We spoke of various topics, more or less suited to the day, but she did not manifest much interest in them. Still it was late church time before she left; and when I returned from meeting, somewhat to my surprise, and a little to my annoyance, I found her awaiting my return.
Feeling perplexed, I unlocked my door, and reluctantly asked her in; for, fancying that she might be in distress or difficulty, and needing advice or craving sympathy, I wanted, in any case, to do by her as I under similar circumstances would wish to be done by.
She sat perfectly noncommittal till the hour for dinner arrived, which, at my invitation, she shared, I having by this time made up my mind that the Lord’s hand was in it.
So, receiving the interruption as part of his plan for that day, I strove to turn the conversation to his glory, tho without results of any kind, as far as I could discover. After sundown, as she still lingered, I took her out for a walk, as I thought the exercise would be beneficial.
It was 9 o’clock when we returned, and, to my astonishment, she followed me uninvited into my room, and helped herself to a seat. I then laid my hand on her shoulder, and said quietly:—
“What is it? Can I help you in any way?”
“Nothing—not at all,” she replied briefly. “I just thought I would sit with you till bedtime, if you don’t object.”
“It is nearly that now,” I answered frankly, “and you know that I have to keep early hours at night as well as in the morning. But you needn’t go quite yet, unless you wish to,” I added, relenting, on seeing how reluctantly she rose to take her leave.
Instantly she sat down again; and we talked in desultory fashion till the clock struck 10. I then said to her gently:—
“Now, dear, I am afraid I shall have to retire.”
She rose promptly, when an unaccountable impulse made me inquire:—
“You will, also, won’t you?”
“No; I shall sit on the porch till it grows cooler.”
Again I was impelled to speak, and this time to authoritatively say:—
“Don’t do that. Go to bed at once.”
She hesitated, and then going to the open door, said hurriedly:—
“Good-night.”
As I watched her turn away, an inexplicable wave of commingled pity and apprehension seemed to surge up in my heart, and instinctively I put my arms around her, and, kissing her tenderly, said kindly:—
“If you love me, go to bed at once.”
At this she gave an inarticulate cry, returned my kiss impulsively, and hurried off without a word.
But I heard her go to her room, and felt a sense of relief, tho I knew not why.
Bright and early the next morning, just as I was starting out, back came Miss A. At first I was annoyed; for, I reasoned to myself, she knows my occupation, and that I am dependent on it for a livelihood. But presently, accepting the situation, I tried to make the best of it, and, sitting down, took my Bible and began to read to her, as I often did, as elsewise she would have had nothing of God’s word.
She listened in absent-minded fashion; we read and talked till noon, when she again dined with me, and spent the whole afternoon and evening. The late summer night fell, and bedtime once more came; but I dared not send her away; for I felt that something was at stake, tho what I little dreamed.
Not until 11 o’clock did she make any move to go. Then she came, and very solemnly taking my face between her two hands, gravely kissed me, first on one cheek and then on the other, saying earnestly as she did so:—
“You don’t know how I thank you for the kindness of these two days. I am going to bed now. You don’t understand it, I know, but you will some day. I will tell you all about it—some day.”
Not until several months later did the explanation come. I then learned, to my horror, that she had fully determined upon suicide as her only way of escape from a painful combination of circumstances, and having received small kindnesses from me in the past, thought that she would like to spend her last day in my company.
Her intention had been that first night, as soon as the streets were clear and all quiet, to go to the river and throw herself in from the bridge near by. But on my urging her so affectionately to retire, her purpose altered, and she put it off one day longer, fearing lest I might think that she did not care for me if she failed to comply with my request.
She then decided to leave the house the next day during my absence, and wander around till time to make the fatal plunge. But, imagining me to be the only person in the place who cared for her, she again wanted to take a last look at me—with what result the reader knows. Our Scripture reading turned her thoughts in an entirely different channel, and inspired her with hope and courage to live, instead of cowardly putting an end to her existence. So she permanently gave up her plan, and tried to trust in the Lord, whom she once had known and served.
Friends, let us never be ashamed of manifesting our affection for one another. Love is the salt of life, which keeps this great, seething world from absolute corruption. Love—Christ’s wondrous love—saves the sinner, and by exercising Christlike love we, too, may win forlorn humanity to nobler deeds and happier ways. And the more we learn to hate sin, yet love the sinner, the more godlike we become.
Friends, it is blessed to rest quietly in the hands of the Master, ready to be used by him, when, where, and as he pleases, for the glory of our Father in heaven.