At this Jim’s heart leapt within him, and he laughed aloud. It was now totally unnecessary for him to save the braggart’s neck by revealing the fact that he was alive and unhurt. Indeed, he smiled, he had not the heart to spoil the man’s boastful story. The innkeeper was a proven murderer or manslaughterer, and there was no need to speak up in his defence. The finding of the first victim’s body, and the consequent confession, had completely ended the matter; and now the law could take its course. And upon the heels of this conclusion there came rushing forward another thought—a thought which had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since he had read the first news of the crime.
“James Tundering-West is dead,” he muttered; “the Squire of Eversfield is _dead_! But Jim Easton, the vagrant, is alive!”
He struck his breast with his fist, and set off walking aimlessly along the street, away from the telegraph office. Of a sudden, it seemed to him, an incubus had been removed. That fat, leering figure in its tight black coat, which, in his imagination, had come to represent domestic life and village society, had collapsed like a pricked balloon. It had leered at him for the last time, and, with a whistle of escaping air, had shrunk into a little heap, over which he was even now leaping to freedom.
“Jim Easton, the free man, is alive,” sang his heart, “but Dolly’s husband is at the bottom of the sea!”
It is not easy to convey in a few words the turmoil of Jim’s mind during the following days. One cannot say that he was the prey of his conscience, for he believed from the bottom of his heart that he was doing the best thing for Dolly, as well as for himself, in thus allowing the story of his murder to stand. His uncle had lived a double life, and thus had maintained a reputation for virtue. In Jim’s case, he could not long have hidden from the eyes of his neighbours the wretchedness of his marriage, and there was no likelihood that he would have ever set a shining example of nobility to the village; and therefore his supposed extinction could be regarded as one of those pretences which are the basis of society.
Had there been any likelihood of his deception being found out, the case would have been different; but his death had been accepted absolutely, and he did not suppose that there would be any penetrating inquiries or investigations by the police now that the innkeeper had made his lying confession. He was completely “dead,” nor would he ever have to come back to earth again, thereby upsetting any future arrangement of her life which his “widow” might make; for even if he were one day recognized by some English acquaintances he could always put any inquirer in the wrong by showing that he had been none other than “Jim Easton” these many years.