Short Fiction, H. G. Wells [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

He was simply eloquent beyond his sober wont, and with the finer edge gone from his judgment. And after that long talk of the brave old days that were past forever, he went out into moonlit Hithergate⁠—alone and up the cliff road where the villas cluster together.

He had bewailed, and now as he walked up the silent road he still bewailed, the fate that had called him to such an uneventful life as a pedagogue’s. What a prosaic existence he led, so stagnant, so colourless! Secure, methodical, year in year out, what call was there for bravery? He thought enviously of those roving, medieval days, so near and so remote, of quests and spies and condottieri and many a risky blade-drawing business. And suddenly came a doubt, a strange doubt, springing out of some chance thought of tortures, and destructive altogether of the position he had assumed that evening.

Was he⁠—Mr. Ledbetter⁠—really, after all, so brave as he assumed? Would he really be so pleased to have railways, policemen, and security vanish suddenly from the Earth?

The talkative man had spoken enviously of crime. “The burglar,” he said, “is the only true adventurer left on Earth. Think of his single-handed fight against the whole civilised world!” And Mr. Ledbetter had echoed his envy. “They do have some fun out of life,” Mr. Ledbetter had said. “And about the only people who do. Just think how it must feel to wire a lawn!” And he had laughed wickedly. Now, in this franker intimacy of self-communion he found himself instituting a comparison between his own brand of courage and that of the habitual criminal. He tried to meet these insidious questionings with blank assertion. “I could do all that,” said Mr. Ledbetter. “I long to do all that. Only I do not give way to my criminal impulses. My moral courage restrains me.” But he doubted even while he told himself these things.

Mr. Ledbetter passed a large villa standing by itself. Conveniently situated above a quiet, practicable balcony was a window, gaping black, wide open. At the time he scarcely marked it, but the picture of it came with him, wove into his thoughts. He figured himself climbing up that balcony, crouching⁠—plunging into that dark, mysterious interior. “Bah! You would not dare,” said the Spirit of Doubt. “My duty to my fellow-men forbids,” said Mr. Ledbetter’s self-respect.

It was nearly eleven, and the little seaside town was already very still. The whole world slumbered under the moonlight. Only one warm oblong of window-blind far down the road spoke of waking life. He turned and came back slowly towards the villa of the open window. He stood for a time outside the gate, a battlefield of motives. “Let us put things to the test,” said Doubt. “For the satisfaction of these intolerable doubts, show that you dare go into that house. Commit a burglary in blank. That, at any rate, is no crime.” Very softly he opened and shut the gate and slipped into the shadow of the shrubbery. “This is foolish,” said Mr. Ledbetter’s caution. “I expected that,” said Doubt. His heart was beating fast, but he was certainly not afraid. He was not afraid. He remained in that shadow for some considerable time.

The ascent of the balcony, it was evident, would have to be done in a rush, for it was all in clear moonlight, and visible from the gate into the avenue. A trellis thinly set with young, ambitious climbing roses made the ascent ridiculously easy. There, in that black shadow by the stone vase of flowers, one might crouch and take a closer view of this gaping breach in the domestic defences, the open window. For a while Mr. Ledbetter was as still as the night, and then that insidious whisky tipped the balance. He dashed forward. He went up the trellis with quick, convulsive movements, swung his legs over the parapet of the balcony, and dropped panting in the shadow even as he had designed. He was trembling violently, short of breath, and his heart pumped noisily, but his mood was exultation. He could have shouted to find he was so little afraid.

A happy line that he had learnt from Wills’s Mephistopheles came into his mind as he crouched there. “I feel like a cat on the tiles,” he whispered to himself. It was far better than he had expected⁠—this adventurous exhilaration. He was sorry for all poor men to whom burglary was unknown. Nothing happened. He was quite safe. And he was acting in the bravest manner!

And now for the window, to make the burglary complete! Must he dare do that? Its position above the front door defined it as a landing or passage, and there were no looking-glasses or any bedroom signs about it, or any other window on the first floor, to suggest the possibility of a sleeper within. For a time he listened under the ledge, then raised his eyes above the sill and peered in. Close at hand, on a pedestal, and a little startling at first, was a nearly life-size gesticulating bronze. He ducked, and after some time he peered again. Beyond was a broad landing, faintly gleaming; a flimsy fabric of bead curtain, very black and sharp, against a further window; a broad staircase, plunging into a gulf of darkness below; and another ascending to the second floor. He glanced behind him, but the stillness of the night was unbroken. “Crime,” he whispered, “crime,” and scrambled softly and swiftly over the sill into the house. His feet fell noiselessly on a mat of skin. He was a burglar indeed!

He crouched for a time, all ears and peering eyes. Outside was a scampering and rustling, and for a moment he repented of his enterprise. A short “meow,” a spitting, and a rush into silence, spoke reassuringly of cats. His courage grew. He stood up. Everyone was abed, it seemed. So easy is it to commit a burglary, if one is so minded. He was glad he had put it