d gardens of box and roses and aromatic shrubs in
spring, had receded into the shadowy memories of those whom the modern
city pointed out, with playful solicitude, as "the oldest inhabitants."
None except the very oldest inhabitants could remember those friendly
and picturesque streets, deeply shaded by elms and sycamores; those
hospitable houses of gray stucco or red brick which time had subdued to
a delicate rust-colour; those imposing Doric columns, or quaint Georgian
doorways; those grass-grown brick pavements, where old ladies in
perpetual mourning gathered for leisurely gossip; those wrought-iron
gates that never closed; those unshuttered windows, with small gleaming
panes, which welcomed the passer-by in winter; or those gardens, steeped
in the fragrance of mint and old-fashioned flowers, which allured the
thirsty visitor in summer. These things had vanished years ago; yet
beneath the noisy commercial city the friendly village remained. There
were hours in the lavender-tinted twilights of spring, or on autumn
afternoons, while the shadows quivered beneath the burnished leaves and
the sunset glowed with the colour of apricots, when the watcher might
catch a fleeting glimpse of the past. It may have been the drop of dusk
in the arched recess of a Colonial doorway; it may have been the faint
sunshine on the ivy-grown corner of an old brick wall; it may have been
the plaintive melody of a negro market-man in the street; or it may have
been the first view of the Culpeper's gray and white mansion; but, in
one or all of these things, there were moments when the ghost of the
buried village stirred and looked out, and a fragrance that was like the
memory of box and mint and blush roses stole into the senses. It was
then that one turned to the Doric columns of the Culpeper house,
standing firmly established in its grassy lawn above the street and the
age, and reflected that the defeated spirit of tradition had entrenched
itself well at the last. Time had been powerless against that fortress
of prejudice; against that cheerful and inaccessible prison of the
tribal instinct. Poverty, the one indiscriminate leveller of men and
principles, had never attacked it, for in the lean years of
Reconstruction, when to look well fed was little short of a disgrace in
Virginia, an English cousin, remote but clannish, had died at an
opportune moment and left Mr. Randolph Byrd Culpeper a moderate fortune.
Thanks to this event, which Mrs. Cul