“An alias, I believe, is the correct term,” said Miss Tarrant. “It means the assumption of a name which is not your own, a most discreditable device, one to which actresses and women to whose occupation I can only allude, uniformly resort. How thankful we ought to be that our respected Rector’s eyes must now be opened and that he has escaped the snare! It was impossible that he could be permanently attracted by vice and vulgarity. It is singular how much more acute a woman’s perception often is than a man’s. I saw through this creature at once.”
Eighteen months passed. The doctor one day was unpacking a book he had bought at Peterborough. Inside the brown paper was a copy of the Stamford Mercury, a journal which had a wide circulation in the Midlands. He generally read it, but he must have omitted to see this number. His eye fell on the following announcement—“On the 24th June last, Richard Leighton, aged 44 years.” The notice was late, for the date of the paper was the 18th November. The next afternoon he was in London. He had been to Great Ormond Street before and had inquired for Mrs. Fairfax, but could find no trace of her. He now called again.
“You will remember,” he said, “my inquiry about Mrs. Fairfax: can you tell me anything about Mrs. Leighton?” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out five shillings.
“She isn’t here: she went away when her husband died.”
“He died abroad?”
“Yes.”
“Where has she gone?”
“Don’t know quite: her friends wouldn’t have anything to do with her. She said she was going to Plymouth. She had heard of something in the dressmaking line there.”
He handed over his five shillings, procured a substitute for next Sunday, and went to Plymouth. He wandered through the streets but could see no dressmaker’s shop which looked as if it had recently changed hands. He walked backwards and forwards on the Hoe in the evening: the Eddystone light glimmered far away on the horizon; and the dim hope arose in him that it might be a prophecy of success, but his hope was vain. It came into his mind that it was not likely that she would be there after dusk, and he remembered her preference for early exercise. The first morning was a failure, but on the second—it was sunny and warm—he saw her sitting on a bench facing the sea. He went up unobserved and sat down. She did not turn towards him till he said “Mrs. Leighton!” She started and recognised him. Little was spoken as they walked home to her lodgings, a small private house. On her way she called at a large shop where she was employed and obtained leave of absence until after dinner.
“At last!” said the doctor when the door was shut.