A lunatic, on the other hand,
was some one whose reason had gone awry--the mechanism of the brain
was injured. The lunatic was out of relation with his environment; the
idiot had merely been delayed _en route_. Be that as it might, he knew at any rate that a lunatic was not to
be listened to, whereas an idiot--well, the one he fell in love with
certainly had the secret of some instinctual knowledge that was not
only joy, but a kind of sheer natural joy. Probably it was that sheer
natural joy of living that reason argues to be untaught, degraded. In any case--at thirty--he married her instead of the daughter of
a duchess he was engaged to. They lead to-day that happy, natural,
vagabond life called idiotic, unmindful of that world the majority of
reasonable people live only to remember. Though born into an artificial social clique that made it difficult,
Heber had always loved the simple things. Nature, especially, meant
much to him. He would rather see a woodland misty with bluebells than
all the châteaux on the Loire; the thought of a mountain valley in the
dawn made his feet lonely in the grandest houses. Yet in these very
houses was his home established. Not that he under-estimated worldly
things--their value was too obvious--but that it was another thing he
wanted. Only he did not know precisely _what_ he wanted until this
particular idiot made it plain. Her case was a mild one, possibly; the title bestowed by implication
rather than by specific mention. Her family did not say that she was
imbecile or half-witted, but that she "was not all there" they probably
did say. Perhaps she saw men as trees walking, perhaps she saw through
a glass darkly. Heber, who had met her once or twice, though never
yet to speak to, did not analyse her degree of sight, for in him,
personally, she woke a secret joy and wonder that almost involved a
touch of awe. The part of her that was not "all there" dwelt in an
"elsewhere" that he longed to know about. He wanted to share it with
her. She seemed aware of certain happy and desirable things that reason
and too much thinking hide. He just felt this instinctively without analysis. The values they set
upon the prizes of life were similar. Money to her was just stamped
metal, fame a loud noise of sorts, position nothing. Of people she was
aware as a dog or bird might be aware--they were kind or unkind. Her
parents, having collected much metal and achieved position, proceeded
to make a loud noise of sorts with some success; and since she did
not contribute, either by her appearance or her tastes, to their
ambitions, they neglected her and made excuses. They were ashamed of
her existence. Her father in particular justified Nietzsche's shrewd
remark that no one with a loud voice can listen to subtle thoughts. She was, perhaps, sixteen--for, though she looked it, eighteen or
nineteen was probably more in accord with her birth certificate. Her
mother was content, however, that she should dress the lesser age,
preferring to tell strangers that she was childish, rather than admit
that she was backward. "You'll never marry at all, child, much less marry as you might," she
said, "if you go about with that rabbit expression on your face. That's
not the way to catch a nice young man of the sort we get down to stay
with us now. Many a chorus-girl with less than you've got has caught
them easily enough. Your sister's done well. Why not do the same? There's nothing to be shy or frightened about." "But I'm not shy or frightened, mother. I'm bored. I mean _they_ bore
me." It made no difference to the girl; she was herself. The bored
expression in the eyes--the rabbit, not-all-there expression--gave
place sometimes to another look. Yet not often, nor with anybody. It
was this other look that stirred the strange joy in the man who fell in
love with her. It is not to be easily described. It was very wonderful. Whether sixteen or nineteen, she then looked--a thousand. *       *       *       *       *

The house-party was of that up-to-date kind prevalent in Heber's
world. Husbands and wives were not asked together. There was a cynical
disregard of the decent (not the stupid) conventions that savoured
of abandon, perhaps of decadence. He only went himself in the hope
of seeing the backward daughter once again. Her millionaire parents
afflicted him, the smart folk tired him. Their peculiar affectation of
a special language, their strange belief that they were of importance,
their treatment of the servants, their calculated self-indulgence, all
jarred upon him more than usual. At bottom he heartily despised the
whole vapid set. He felt uncomfortable and out of place. Though not a
prig, he abhorred the way these folk believed themselves the climax of
fine living. Their open immorality disgusted him, their indiscriminate
love-making was merely rather nasty; he watched the very girl he was at
last to settle down with behaving as the tone of the clique expected
over her final fling--and, bored by the strain of so much "modernity,"
he tried to get away. Tea was long over, the sunset interval invited,
he felt hungry for trees and fields that were not self-conscious--and
he escaped. The flaming June day was turning chill. Dusk hovered over
the ancient house, veiling the pretentious new wing that had been
added. And he came across the idiot girl at the bend of the drive,
where the birch trees shivered in the evening wind. His heart gave a
leap. She was leaning against one of the dreadful statues--it was a
satyr--that sprinkled the lawn. Her back was to him; she gazed at a
group of broken pine trees in the park beyond. He paused an instant,
then went on quickly, while his mind scurried to recall her name. They
were within easy speaking range. "Miss Elizabeth!" he cried, yet not too loudly lest she might vanish
as suddenly as she had appeared. She turned at once. Her eyes and lips
were smiling welcome at him without pretence. She showed no surprise. "You're the first one of the lot who's said it properly," she
exclaimed, as he came up. "Everybody calls me Elizabeth instead of
Elspeth. It's idiotic. They don't even take the trouble to get a name
right." "It is," he agreed. "Quite idiotic." He did not correct her. Possibly
he had said Elspeth after all--the names were similar. Her perfectly
natural voice was grateful to his ear, and soothing. He looked at
her all over with an open admiration that she noticed and, without
concealment, liked. She was very untidy, the grey stockings on her
vigorous legs were torn, her short skirt was spattered with mud. Her nut-brown hair, glossy and plentiful, flew loose about neck
and shoulders. In place of the usual belt she had tied a coloured
handkerchief round her waist. She wore no hat. What she had been doing
to get in such a state, while her parents entertained a "distinguished"
party, he did not know, but it was not difficult to guess. Climbing
trees or riding bareback and astride was probably the truth.