“It was a wet afternoon—wet and chilly, and as neither Mr. or Mrs. Hartley had any particular inducement to face the elements, they decided to stay indoors, Mrs. Hartley reclining in an easy chair before the drawing-room fire whilst her husband seated himself in like manner before a blazing hearth in the dining-room.
“They tried to read—they could not; they tried to sleep—they could not: and somehow they felt that they ought to go and look at the children—but they would not; and so they whiled away the hours in this half-hearted and wholly unsatisfactory manner.
“It seems the sudden opening of the nursery door first disturbed Mrs. Hartley, and fancying she heard someone steal gently across the landing, she called out; there was no reply, so, thinking it was fancy, she was about to settle down again when the sound of some one coughing made her heart beat quickly.
“Who could it be? Not the nurse! The nurse wouldn’t cough in such a deep and hoarse manner! nor yet Arthur; she would recognise his cough anywhere. Hark! there it was again—cough! cough! cough! just as if some one was being sick. Someone being sick! Ah! who could that someone be? who indeed? but—and fearing lest one of the children might be on the stairs, she overcame a momentary weakness and sallied forth.
“What she saw froze her with horror.
“At the top of the hall staircase was the figure of a man clad in the costume of the eighteenth century, viz., long maroon tail-coat with vest to match, knee breeches, and coarse yellow stockings. Mrs. Hartley couldn’t see his face, as he was in a recumbent position and vomiting horribly. Looking up at him from below, her eyes big with pity and wonder—not fear—was Kitty, the Hartley’s youngest child.
“Catching sight of her mother, Kitty cried, ‘Oh! mummy, do tum down! the poor man is awful ill. Do help him! I’ll tum too,’ and suiting the action to her words the little mite prepared to ascend. No sooner, however, had she set a foot on the staircase than the old man slipped, and, falling sideways, plunged through the air.
“Making sure Kitty would be hurt, and regardless of the fact that she was merely clutching at a phantom, Mrs. Hartley appears to have made frantic efforts to stay the disaster. Whether in her agitation she tried to go down the stairs too quickly, or whether in her anxiety to save her child she lost her head and simply leaped forward, it is impossible to say; she herself always declares that the stairs ‘collapsed’ under her. Anyhow, she fell, and crashing into Kitty, literally crushed the life out of her. Mr. Hartley found mother and child lying together at the foot of the stairs, and although he saw no sign of any apparition, he is no longer a sceptic.
“His wife recovered—at least, she is alive—though I am told some internal complaint—the result of the catastrophe—makes her long for death.
“Some months after Kitty’s burial, when time had to a certain extent mollified the poignancy of suffering caused by her death, Mr. Hartley received a letter of condolence from the Rev. Silas Wetherby.