Test Everything
Summary: The gentle reader takes the wheel, and Jane calls out St. John. Now with extra theology.
A/N: Italics are taken from the original text of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Penguin edition. Am I going to be taking liberties with the text? Many. I hope you will forgive me.
"Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!"
"For the sake of all that is good under Heaven, why not?" the words ripped themselves from my throat, as I sat down beside him, driven by something other than conscious intellect. St John's mouth had slackened, the stoic's composure cracked by the exasperation in my tone and bearing. No delay, I seized the moment of his hesitation – for if I did not seize it, it would surely only be a passing heartbeat – with all I could muster.
"Child of God that you are, beloved messenger of His Word, you are still not the Almighty. She is God's, as you are, a daughter of Him as you are His son. Who are you, then, to claim perfect knowledge of another human being, another with free independent will, another who stands before the feet of God as you do?" Fire entered my voice. "Do you believe yourself to be without sin, righteous in and of yourself?"
"Surely not. For the truth is that all men have sinned, all fall short of the glory of God," St John replied; yet while the stoic mask had returned to his face, I perceived a tremor in his tone, a tremble in the movement of his hand.
"And yet, sir? For when you declare that you will not even ask Rosamond Oliver to take up her cross, when you declare that you would not even ask, you show not acumen but pride."
"It is prideful, then, to spare her what would surely be misery?"
"Prideful to believe that you know the whole sum of her character, all that she is and ever could and ever shall be! For in doing so, sir, you cast yourself – imperfect sheep, as we all are, beleaguered by folly and confusion – as the Shepherd!"
At his flinch, I realized that my voice had risen to almost a shout, and regret washed through me. The zeal that made St John's own voice ring with the gravitas of a church bell, paradoxically enough, made him sensitive to noise. (Unsurprisingly, given his character, he had not told me this; Diana had confided it to me in a low and quiet warning one night after supper.)
"Forgive me. I did not mean to shout. Nonetheless, the statement stands. You love her, do you not?"
"Pax; you are forgiven. As to the question, I love my Saviour and the yoke He has put upon me more."
"You love her, do you not? I question not that Christ takes precedence; for anything to take precedence over Christ is the very essence of idolatry. But do you love Rosamond?"
"Of course I do!"
Shock was the first sensation to settle over and then soak into my skin, as fine mist does on a crisp spring dawn; for the first time in our yet short acquaintance, notes of anguish and passion were audible in St John's voice. They echoed in my own bones, as I remembered my broken idol, a beloved master I was forced to leave, lest I abandon the love of God and my own self-respect. Memory spurred me on, as I increased my efforts to warn my neighbour of his folly.
"Then consider, St John, that you need not be forced to choose between your love for Rosamond and your love for God!"
His head jerked up. "Impossible. You know the Scriptures, evidently; you know it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
I permitted myself a smile. "Were I to speak flippantly, I would quibble and say that it said nothing of a rich woman." Humour flickered through his eyes, for a heartbeat. "But come, I shall be appropriately grave. Most certainly, to be your wife, Rosamond would need to give up her fortunes. But sir, which is crueller? For if you do not so much as ask her, she will never so much as have the choice whether to retain her comfortable, earthly trappings, and stagnate and suffocate within them, or to grow. Is it truly altruistic to deprive her of her free, independent will?"
"The theological tenet of free will is fallacious; those who will be saved are elected."
"Then I ask again; who are you to declare whether Rosamond Oliver is among them or not, St John? You know as well as I that such is the role of the Almighty alone. Is it a character in the Book of Life who writes the list of dramatis personae and the roles they play? No; such is the purview of the Author, His alone!"
His mouth opened, then closed; with all my heart, I willed him to think.
Then – "You are correct, that I am proud; and that I need repent me of it, you are wise to tell me. You have my thanks. Correct, also, that it is not my place to judge her. But surely–" the mask dropped for a second, to reveal the study of a young man, uncertain even in boundless ambition and aspiration – "surely, if it were His plan that we were wed, she would be more like me? have more in the way of natural sympathy? You do not require elaboration; you have noticed the marked dissimilarities between us."
I could not repress my smile; nor indeed did I wish to. Seeing that uncertain youth, I grew surer still in my opinion. "St John, did He not create every one of us, fearfully and wonderfully? Then the differences with which He made us must also be part of His design. Creation itself is not a macrocosm of hegemony, but it is many different parts which make up a glorious, unified whole. You will, even in your best moments, have a tendency to sternness; and Miss Oliver, even in her worst, shall look to take solace in joy and thanksgiving, for she is a thankful girl."
His eyebrows rose. "You do not believe that we would be well-matched; and yet, you would have us marry."
"I would, for the sake of your mutual happiness," I said. "I do not believe you are similar; and therefore, in the conventional sense of the term, you would be most ill-matched." I held up my hand, some distant part of me surprised even of my own boldness; since he had given me a measure of deference, I was clearly determined to make use of it for all that I could. "However, I counsel you that given augmentation of present affection with charity, loving-kindness, wisdom and patience on both your parts, you would both do quite well in a marriage. Consider the lesson that marriage is yet another exercise in the development of these things."
He wavered; but still did not crumble to my counsel! No matter; I had held my ground against a beloved master; I could pursue my friend till he reached the limits of his folly.
"Have you no concern for her health? 'Tis a difficult life in India–"
"Miss Oliver is as hardy and healthy a girl as any I have ever met," I declared. "Quite as tough as your sister Diana, I should think. Malaria, while prevalent in India, is certainly not omnipresent. England is no a perfect haven from Malady; I remember dear friends dying from consumption at Lowood."
He wavered; I pounced upon the opportunity, like a lioness who has finally leapt upon her prey. "Which would be worse for you, St John? To live out long, quiet days here, at Marsh Head, until you died in your sleep? Or to burn brightly under an Indian sun, going out raging against the darkness as you do?"
"To remain," he replied, without hesitation. "For I could never bear such a cage."
"Then my counsel is to do as His word instructs; you must love Miss Oliver, your neighbour, as you do yourself. Ask, St John. She is not the captain of her fate, I cede. Man proposes; God disposes. But every woman is the captain of her soul, until such a time as she entrusts it to God."
With that, he bowed his head; spent perhaps twenty minutes silent in prayer; then raised his head. For the first time, exasperation mingled with humour in blue eyes, lending them warmth.
"I have heard it said that the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Enough; I am vanquished."
My smile had broken into a grin, and I permitted it again. In an hour, when three months' acquaintance had not done it, this man had ceased to be simply former host and benefactor; he had become neighbour, and friend, and equal. I delighted in the change, and responded accordingly.
"Splendid! Then be off! To Vale Hall!"
"Vale? Indeed." With a laugh – yes, reader, a laugh! – he collected hat, watch and bade me farewell.
I sat at last. Though longing for my own broken idol wailed through my bone and marrow, I could nonetheless smile through the pain with a certain wry, amused delight that came with this following thought:
Oh, to be a fly on the wall when he asks her!
For in so serendipitous a position, such a fly would have found the finest entertainment within a twenty-mile radius.
Hoping you enjoyed!