Miss Kate Darlington was the only daughter of Thaddeus Darlington, a real down-eastern Yankee, who had imbibed all those unreasonable prejudices prevailing in the New England States against all citizens of the South. He had been sent South by the government to look after some defaulting revenue collectors, and after discharging that duty, he concluded to locate in Jackson, Mississippi. His daughter, Kate, had received a polished education, but she had been petted and flattered until she was pretty well spoiled. Her disposition was gentle and kind when things went smoothly, but she had a temper which often got the upper hand, and then she usually made matters rather unpleasant.
After the maskers had dispersed Miss Darlington stole away from the crowd, and took a seat behind the ladies’ cabin, in order to have what she called a day dream. A sentiment of a mysterious nature had of late been disturbing her mind—a strange feeling not altogether painful, and not entirely pleasant. A kind of joyful pain—a happy sorrow—a pleasant fear.
“What is the matter with me?” was the question she asked herself. “What sort of a pain is this that is mixed with delicious pleasure? How strange that such joy can be concealed under such misery!”
While she was thus soliloquizing the image of a man would every now and then pass across the path of her imagination. She could see the image plainer when her eyes were shut than with them open; and despite her efforts to drive it away, it would keep thrusting itself before her, sometimes in one shape, then in another, but always with the same look—the same form; that shape was the exact counterpart of the gallant sir knight of Ivanhoe.
“Yes, it is so; I am captured at last—it is love; heigh ho! there is no use to struggle any longer. What will dear papa say when he finds that I have fallen in love with a real double and twisted rebel—a man who fought through four years of bloody war against the union—a downright traitor, who brags of the part he played in the rebel army? Ah, me! how strange it is that I should fall in love with such a man! But didn’t Juliet fall in love with a son of her father’s bitterest enemy? Yes; but, alas! what a tragic ending did that love produce! Something tells me that this love will end in sorrow. But stop a moment; why should papa be Ralleigh’s enemy? Why should I not love Captain Burk? He fought for his country—he fought in self-defense—he battled for his life—his liberty—his home—his mother and his sisters. He would have been less than a man if he had refused to fight—it would have been cowardly. No, he was right and I honor him for it; I love Captain Burk; papa will love him when he knows him better. I ought to be proud that such a man as Captain Burk has honored me with his love. I am proud of it. I will reciprocate his love; and, if papa is willing, I will be the wife of what my people have misnamed a traitor. Ah, me! there is the rub. Papa will raise a great row when he knows how I love a rebel.”
Scottie then took out her handkerchief and wiped away the tears that were stealing down her cheeks.
“A gentleman is looking for you, miss,” said a chamber-maid who came through the back door and approached her.
“Who is it?”
“I believe they call him Divinghoe or Hivanhoe, or some such outlandish name.”
“Where is he?”