The White Witch of Rosehall
Chapter 12: Who is Annie Palmer?
The three book-keepers were sitting at dinner; it was about eight o’clock. A half-moon glowed in the east with the greenish tinge of the tropics. An hour or so later Mr. Rider would take up his station in the still-house; now he was making the acquaintance of young Rutherford; Burbridge he knew already.
Robert was in a silent, surly mood. He had lunched that day with Annie, as arranged, but the lunch had been a depressing function. Each party had something to say to the other, but had refrained from saying it; each felt that a barrier had sprung up between them since the night before; each was conscious of it, but wished to disguise the fact from the other.
Annie had, casually as it seemed, asked him if he were coming to the Great House that night; he had answered, no, he did not think so, and she had not pressed him to come. Indeed, she had seemed relieved at learning that that was not his intention. She had made no reference to the scene of the night before, although it would have been very natural for her to have done so. He himself did not, although he would have liked to ask one or two questions. But she was hardly the person whom he could question as to the whereabouts of Millicent.
He had gone about his work that day with a dogged determination, though he had no inclination for it. Psyche was looking after his room and his food now; he had asked her that morning to undertake that duty. Rider was to live in the small building attached to the overseer’s residence, but would take his meals with the other book-keepers. At this moment he was trying to appraise Robert; already he had heard a good deal about him from Burbridge.
The talk on the estate that day had been of the appearance of the strange apparition so distinctly seen by many persons on the previous night. The news had spread with the rapidity of a cane-piece conflagration; there was not a slave, not a white man, on Rosehall who had not heard of it by this; on Palmyra also it was being discussed. The people could think and speak of nothing else. The slaves were frightened. The Horse with three feet, luminous, ominous, of which they had heard all their lives, and which they believed to be an infernal spirit, dominated their imaginations now that it had been seen by so many living witnesses.
“And you yourself saw it?” said Burbridge to Rider, not for the first time.
“As I have said more than once before, yes. It was very distinct, very horrible; it had only three legs, and the foreleg seemed to grow out of the creature’s chest; it was just as negro tradition and superstition have described the Three-footed Horse as being.”
“Then there is such a fiend,” muttered Burbridge, troubled; “and it is seen on this estate of all others!”
“Is there such a fiend?” inquired Rider, with a slight smile.
“You just said that you yourself saw it,” Robert reminded him gloomily. “You should be far more convinced than we.”
“I am merely wondering i