Rensselaer Journal, Volume 11, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 October 1901 — The Problem of Life. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Problem of Life.

BY ETHEL M. COLSON. (Copyright, 1901, by Dally Story Pub. Co.) If there was one particular characteristic or quality far which the Rev. Charles Billings was especially distinguished it wqs that of truthfulness. He was truthful, moreover, for reasons quite -apart and side from his calling. As'a slim and pallid youth at boarding school he had been famous —and popular—because of his exceeding candour. Later, as the devoted and conscientious rector of the Angelican Catholic Church of the Atonement, he was popular and beloved in spite of it. And if ever the meek and lowly-minded clergyman knew a suspicion of spiritual pride it was because of the absolutely spotless and unstained condition of his life-record in the matter of truth-telling. - To have expected the Rev. Charles Billings, therefore, to have deliberately—albeit unwillingly—yielded to the temptation to give utterance to an unequivocal lie would have been manifestly outrageous. And yet The door of the church study opened, one evening, to admit a woman —a woman tall, slender, of good figure, and expressive face, mirroring Just then numerous unpleasant emotions. The Rev. Charles Billings knew her for one of his parishoners, the wife of solid John Brewster, merchant of the old-time Chicago, and a man who was popularly suspected of being a better business man than husDand. Certain it is, tne fine eyes of his wife had long since acquired a look of weary and patient resignation. Straight up to the table at which the priest sat hurried the woman. In her eagerness and agitation she never saw the surprised but soothing gesture which beckoned her to a chair. But as she sank'into it mechanically it became evident that she had been crying. “Oh Father Billings!” she exclaimed, wildly—the gentle little priest being so designated by his High Church congregation—“Oh Father Billings do help me! If you do not —” but it was some minutes before she could go on. “I met an —an old friend this afternoon,” she explained, subsequently, "and we —we had an ice together, Just to talk of —of old times. There wasn’t a shadow of harm in it, although we used —we used to love each other. Perhaps,” with a sudden accession of recklessness, "I love him still. At all events, someone—my husband,” her voice and face all concentrated bitterness, “plotted and came between us. Then I married—Mr. Brewster. I—i felt so helpless; I didn’t know what else to do. And I’ve tried to be a good wife to him, a far, better wife than he has been a husband. I’ve never seen —the other man—since I was married, until today. "We came upon each other quite by accident, and we only—we only talked a little of —of that other time. But as we left the confectioner’s by one door

my husband came in at another. If he saw me—and I’m almost sure he did—he’ll believe the worst in a moment. He Judges everybody by’ himself. And the fact that he had another woman with him won’t make a bit of difference—to him. If he saw me—and 1 know, I feel that he did—he’s at home now, questioning my maid. He always does so if he finds me out of the house, so matter where I am, nor how short a time I’ve been absent. And if he discovers that I haven’t been making charity calls this afternoon, as I told my, maid I intended doing, he’ll—he’ll throw me aside like an old glove, or an answered letter. Oh, I know him," ■• the priest looked Incredulous, "and

I know what tee’ll do. And I—l don’t know—ah yes, God help me! I do know—what will become of me. And I haven’t a relative, scarcely a friend in the wtfrld, with the exception or yourself, Father Billings. If you don’t help me, I’m—l’m afraid I’m lost forever!" "What do you want me to do, my child?” asked the priest, quietly. Fpr answer, Bhe sank on her knees beside him, catching at his hand with small, beseeching fingers that burned like fire. “Tell him that I have been making charity calls,” she said, hoarsely. “He won’t believe me, but he’ll believe you, if you tell him. Everybody knows," without a suspicion of grim humor, “how invariably truthful you are.” "But, my child,” said the priest, gravely, “that would be a lie, a sin." “I know it would be a lie,” she made answer, “but would it be a sin if you did it to save another? And there are worse sins than lying, Father, and some of them are hard to avoid. 1 don’t know how to tell you, but—l’ve no money, Father, I’ve no friends or relatives, and if my husband throws me aside there’s only one person to whom I can turn for assistance—and—and—l do not want to go to—him." The face of the priest was pale and puzzled. As a clergyman he knew lying to be sinful. As a man and a

“No, sir,” he heard himself saying, gentleman he hated lying on general principles. He was firmly convinced of the wickedness of doing evil that good may come. And yet— It was all po clear before him. ir this woman did not still love the—the other man—she would not so fear and dread being thrown aside by her unlovihg, unloved husband. And, if so thrown aside, to whom else could she turn? That she was .speaking the truth in regard to her husband’s harshness and her own penniless condition the clergyman knew well. He knew more about solid John Brewster than most people, and for a hard man and exceeding close with his money all men knew him. 'That he would refuse to believe the meeting between his wife and the lover from whom he had parted her, by unfair means, solitary and as innocent as accidental was also tolerably certain. Then, certainly, the problem lay between this woman’s soul and his own —the priestly soul which had never yet been stained by lying. Heavy steps sounded along the passageway leading from the street. The woman, springing to a chair on the other side of the table, looked at the priest beseechingly and bent hurriedly over some papers. A moment later and solid John Brewster himself strode into the room. At sight of his wife the hard face changed, the expression faltered. The priest, rising to confront him, saw in his eyes both doubt and hesitation. “I see my wife is with you,” the man said, sullenly. “May I inquire if she has been with you all day?" For a moment the priest struggled against a most human Impulse, the mad, natural, all but uncontrollable inclination to knock down this lntimidator of a woman and trample upon him. Then he remembered that he was a priest, and that there seemed but one way of helping the intlmidator’s victim. He turned h.s eyes toward her down-bent head, momentarily, and again the Problem of the Lie lifted its double-headed torment and regarded him. He saw, as if in vision, the Recording Angel who was so real a personage to him take down, with sorrowful sternness, the white scroll of his unstained veracity and degrade it, degrade it to the dust. His eyes filled with tears, suddenly, as though he had witnessed another’s downfall. But, over and against this vision, was set the soul of this woman—and her peril. For him, repentance and remorse in plenty. Nay, was he not already repenting the very thought of the sin in contemplation. For her—in case her fears were realized —no place or repentance, though she sought it carefully, with tears. And, right or wrong, the unselfish impulse triumphed. “No, sir," he heard himself saying, distinctly, after so brief an Interval that even the angry husband noticed no hesitation, “she has not. I d.d not see her until after .ancheon. But this afternoon she accompanied me on a round of charity calls, and, since our return, she has been busily engaged in making out her report to the Charity Calls Committee of the Woman’s Auxiliary. She will be ready to accompany you home so soon as this is finished.” ■For this lie Father Charles Billings presently—and iong—repented, and he will never cease to be anxious concerning its moral effect upon Mrs. Brewster—now slowly acquiring the habit of a negative happiness by fitter

self-forgetting. Also, the recurrent torture of his wretched Inability to solve the problem of whetner or not he did right in telling the lie will always serve the purpose of an exquisitely painful hair-shirt to the man who told»it. But there are rare moments, now and then, when the problem and the repentance alike cease to trouble him—when he is glad In the conviction that the He saved not only a woman’s body from perdition, but also the woman’s soul. . '

“Oh, Father Billings!”