Miss Ayr of Virginia, & other stories

by Julia Magruder

It was, therefore, even to his consciousness, just as well that his young wife died. It would perhaps have been better if the baby had died with her, and he could so have buried out of sight all reminder of that strange and incongruous episode in his life.

But the baby, a tiny girl, did not die. She struggled through teething, and whooping cough, and measles, and many other such attacks, in the midst of neglect, cold, heat, hunger, and pain, and lived on, growing into an almost preternaturally serious, wise, and thoughtful child.

There is a theory of which this father and child might be taken as striking examples. It is to the effect that every created soul has the same period of human life to compass, and that it exists, in successive human incarnations, until that period is accomplished. Sometimes, but an hour or a minute may be needed to make up the exact sum, but the re-incarnation must necessarily be, even if for no longer a time than that. This theory, we are told, accounts for the phenomena of youth in age, and age in youth, which we so often see; in other words, it explains why a very aged person is often silly and childish, and a young child wise and matured in mind. When this occurs (so the theory goes) the old person is in his or her first incarnation—is, in fact, a young soul—while the child may be in his or her last incarnation, an old soul almost ready to be liberated from humanity and admitted to the higher life.

Whether there be truth in this theory, or not, certain it is that Clem Rhodes had the attributes of a young soul, ignorant in mind and shallow in feeling, while his little daughter (whom her fond mother had named Clementina) had the mental force and depth of feeling which might well seem to belong to an old soul.

The strangest part of it was the way in which they both seemed to realize the truth about themselves. Although Clementina was now but six years old, and her father was well over fifty, there could be no question as to which of them was the guiding, ruling, dominating spirit. Her mind was as marked for its orderliness as her father’s was for the absence of that trait. Quite from within, she had evolved a sentiment of horror for debt and loose dealing of every kind, and she would sit in judgment on her father for such practices in a way, which, however strange, he never thought of resenting. In some way never fully accounted for, she had formed the habit of calling him “Clem,” or “Boy,” instead of “Papa.”

Clementina was by no means beautiful—a small, thin, pale child, with enormous dark eyes, which were so thoughtful and steady in their expression that most people who looked at her, ever so casually, found their attention caught and fixed, and an impression of wonder conveyed to them.

The child’s life was almost absolutely lonely, in spite of the fact that she had found out and entered herself as a pupil at a small free school in the neighborhood; for she kept apart from everyone; and although she made extraordinary progress in her lessons, she made no friends. It was her father’s habit to be absent all day, so she prepared her little mid-day meal, and partook of it alone.

By this time Rhodes’s flagging energies and accumulating years had reduced him to such poverty, that his former rather comfortable set of rooms was now diminished to one, and in this he and the child slept, cooked, ate their meals, and lived. They had two folding-beds, which were closed up in the daytime, and a folding-table, which was then opened. At night, the beds were lowered into the central space of the room, and the table folded back against the wall.

Rhodes always took his breakfast and late dinner with the child, these meals being cooked and served by her with very little help from him. She also did the marketing, and kept the accounts, setting down all her figures neatly and accurately, but getting his help in adding up the columns.

The father, of course, had a life of his own, which was as apart from that of the child, as her long, lonely hours were apart from his. He had dropped out of society, almost entirely, and he frequented the theatres more than ever. Occasionally, he took the child with him; but although she never so far relaxed her dignity as to fall asleep, she seemed to get but little pleasure out of it, and her solemn air and deeply thoughtful expression so grated on him, that he was glad that she did not oftener express a wish to go.