# Three Speeds Forward/Chapter 2

II
THE MAN THAT MADDENED A CONTINENT
II
THE MAN THAT MADDENED A CONTINENT
TUDDINGHAM was one of those swagger little places that had been taken care of before it was born. You couldn't build a house that cost less than ten thousand; you couldn't sell liquor, open a shop or hotel, manufacture anything, teach music, keeps pigs, burn soft coal, expose advertisements, dig wells or cesspools, mine, or generate acetylene gas. Forty lawyers had spent years in tying the infant ​Studdingham into bow-knots, and concocting what papa called "a deed of don'ts." Their success had been a matter of general congratulation, and, after nine years, it was left to this Marsden to find a crack in the legal wall. He was the manufacturer, proprietor, and inventor of the Bo-peep Puzzle!
You surely remember it? Twelve little Noah's-ark sheep, and a dolly shepherdess, and a checkerboard with three kinds of squares—with an unintelligible book of directions, and the look of its being childishly simple—till you took it up in a weak moment, and did nothing else for the next six months! No doubt you went crazy over it, like the rest of us, and bo-peeped and bo-peeped till your brains curdled! I know I did, and papa, and everybody; and we used to see his picture in the ends of the magazines, with big letters under it, calling him, "The Man that has Maddened a Continent!" A nice recruit, wasn't he, for poor little Studdingham, with red-hot aspirations for refinement and good ​form, and only just beginning to attract people like the Vincents!
Of course, we had had undesirables before, but we had chased them out very easily. They were usually simple-minded parvenus, who thought they had only to buy a house in order to tuck in socially. When they discovered they had invested their money in a mausoleum, they were as eager to go as we were to speed them, and the even tenor of our aristocratic way was not long disturbed. But the man that had maddened a continent gave us no such handle to expel him. He had come to bury himself in the great empty rooms of the Howard place, and think up fresh mind-rackers in its noble seclusion. Ostracizing him seemed rather an ineffectual weapon, and the situation, if it were to be relieved at all, plainly called for something more drastic. Anyway, Studdingham was simply boiling over with fury; and when the Vincents packed up and left, they were in the humor to tear him limb from limb.
​Papa was the angriest of the lot, which was all the more to his credit, as he was by no means a highflyer, and rather pooh-poohed the snobbishness of the place. In fact, he had only settled there originally because, as he said, "they all looked so clean and happy." He was a born suburbanite, and would have lapsed to shirt sleeves and a watering pot if we hadn't sternly headed him off—one of those men who spend all day in ruling a large corporation with a rod of iron, and then return home in the evening to domestic servitude. In the newspaper caricatures he was usually engaged in throttling the State, or cramming his pockets full of legislators, and you wouldn't have thought he was afraid to say "Boo!" to the cook.
I don't know why he had taken such an impulsive liking to the Vincents. As a rule, he had a lazy indifference for newcomers, and let mamma and me do all the pioneer work of making their acquaintance and sizing them up. Even in our little convulsions he was always ​the last one to get excited, and preferred to lie back and blow smoke rings while everybody else was screaming. But he had fallen in love with the Vincents right off, and had made tremendous efforts to please and keep them. It was he who had put it into their heads to buy the Howard place, and that at a price that even two swell little innocents could see was a bargain. They were devoted to papa, too, and blindly trusted all the negotiations to him, so he was really to blame for letting Marsden jump in and get the property, while he waited and dillydallied and dickered to save them that thirty thousand. Poor papa! I was awfully sorry for him. He couldn't have been more depressed if a Limited had smashed up and let in the line for a million.
Well, so the Vincents left, and Mr. Marsden sneaked in, and papa went on like a she-bear robbed of its cubs. You only had to say "Marsden" for him to explode, and he spent most of his spare time thinking of ways to run him out. But the puzzle man was ​terribly unassailable. He didn't put up his name at the Country Club; didn't try to make any friends; didn't put his head out of his shell for anybody to take a crack at it. The only apparent method of hurting him was to attack him from the outside—bust the puzzle business, and drive him into bankruptcy. But he hadn't been with us a month before he launched "Dobbin, Dobbin, Oh, Where's Dobbin?" and successfully maddened a continent for a second time. I gave papa one of the dollar sizes as a birthday present, but he didn't see any joke in it, and got blacker than a thundercloud. He was sorer than ever about losing the Vincents, and never passed the Howard place without gritting his teeth.
We all waited for Marsden to come out and startle us. We didn't know exactly what he was going to do—but we were sure, sooner or later, that he would do it. Then, as nothing happened, a sort of mystery grew up about him. He hid away in a corner of that vast old house with two German servants, an old man ​and an old woman; and as far as any splurge was concerned, he might have been the hired caretaker. I mean, except for his G. R. A. T. car, a forty-horse Austrian giant that used to slip out, mostly at night, and sizzle around like the wind. Papa said he was only trying to pique our curiosity, and that the surest way of getting people to know you, who don't want to know you, is to make them believe you don't want to know them.
Well, it went along like this for ever so long, till one day he actually did make an acquaintance, and—would you believe it?—that acquaintance was me. I was hung up on the road when I heard a big car purring up the hill, and when I turned round, I saw it was the G. R. A. T. It swerved for a moment in an undecided manner, passed me, slowed down, and stopped. I looked up from the bonnet, and there was Mr. Marsden getting out. I knew him in a minute from his picture, and, besides, the G. R. A. T. identified him like a passport. He was a startlingly ​handsome man of about thirty, with heaps of reddish-brown hair, and wild gray eyes; tall and spare, with a musician look, and an aquiline nose. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and held my breath.
"Might I not assist you?" he asked in a delightfully pleasant voice, raising his leather cap.
"Oh, thank you very much—it is nothing," I replied with what I considered the right degree of warmth to offset his courtesy, and yet give him no opening for a talk; and then, as he still stood there smiling, I added, in a please-go-away tone, "a broken porcelain; I'll have it right in a minute."
I was unprepared for his taking the plug out of my hand, which he did in the most matter-of-fact way, like a paid mechanic, and pulled out his knife to widen the points. He was as exasperatingly slow about it as though he had specially arrived from a garage in a trouble wagon.
"Why do all you people dislike me so ​ "'Why do all you people dislike me so much?'"
​much?" he asked abruptly, raising his eyes and meeting mine. "Good heavens, what is the matter? What have I done? What crime have I committed?"
I couldn't help flushing at being asked such a point-blank question. Under the circumstances it struck me as hardly short of an impertinence.
"I do not know what you mean," I said; "and even if I did, I should not care to discuss it with you. Indeed, I'd be obliged if you'd let me fix my car for myself."
"I beg your pardon," he returned, still holding tight to the plug, and gazing down at me in the most disconcerting way. "It isn't that I mind being let alone. In fact, that's why I came here. The house has an atmosphere; and you can hardly imagine how important atmosphere is to a savant. But, while I was prepared to be regarded as a recluse—as a crank, even—it didn't occur to me that I was qualifying to become the pariah of Studdingham!"
​He looked so sad and reproachful that it seemed only common humanity to say that he wasn't.
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," I remarked, with all the gumption I could put into such an awful fib.
"I don't know why I should particularly care," he went on, "but it has kind of got on my nerves, you know. I feel myself boiling in a caldron of resentment, while your friends are cheerfully skimming the grease off the top. It—it's humiliating! I wish I could do what a friend of mine did in London when a Lord Somebody cut him on the street. Followed him, you know, calling out and raising such a hullabaloo, that finally the lord, in self-defense, was compelled to turn round and ask him angrily what was the matter. 'I just wanted to tell you,' said my friend, 'that if you don't want to know me, you needn't!' If it wouldn't be asking too much of you, I wish you'd give the same message from me to Studdingham."
​He said this so whimsically that I burst out laughing.
"What fools people are!" he continued confidentially. "Here am I complaining because the curate hasn't called, and none of the village bores and busybodies have descended on me. For years I've been looking for a place where I could be stark alone, and now, when I have found it, I can't help feeling slighted and insulted."
"You ought to go off somewhere where you are more appreciated," I said. "Frankly, here you are not a success, and your pro-profession seems to jar on our susceptibilities."
"Profession!" he cried. "Do you mean my puzzles? Good heavens, I hope you don't think that's the only thing I do! I had to gain an independence somehow, and to a man of a mathematical turn that was the easiest way. I got the idea of Bo-peep from an algebraical formula I happened at the time to be using in some experiments. But apart from ​all that, is it such a crime to amuse the public?"
"But you tortured them," I said. "Your advertisement is only too true; and really and truly, how can you expect us to be chummy with a man that has maddened a continent!"
He groaned at this, and put out his hand as though to implore me to stop.
"I suppose," he remarked at last, very bitingly, "I suppose that if Sir Isaac Newton had sold peanuts, or Darwin had eked out his income by peddling the 'Life of General Grant,' you'd be quite blind to the trifling additions they made to the store of human knowledge."
"Oh, I wouldn't," I said. "But I wouldn't like to answer for Studdingham. Besides—I don't want to be rude, you know—but we see only the peanut side of your career, and, up to now, nobody had even guessed that there was another."
I waited for him to tell me what it was, but he didn't. I couldn't help feeling curious ​about it, because he was so handsome, and had such nice eyes, and the way he held back seemed to make it more mysterious and exciting.
"I am a digger," he said at last—"a poor, miserable, lonely digger. I dig and dig, and the deeper I get the less I appear to accomplish. To put it into common English, I am engaged in electrical research, not of the profitable, ingenious, touch-the-button kind, but in the study of some great basic, perhaps insoluble, phenomena that we have been content to name and then ignore—a scientific procedure more universal than you'd think."
He paused, and it seemed only polite on my part to ask him how he was getting on.
"Wait twenty years, and then, perhaps, I'll answer you," he returned. "Have you ever been a victim of those schoolboy jokes, when you open your parcel and then find another parcel inside of that, and another inside of that, and so on and so on? Well, that's what science is, only, in our case, there are a million ​more wrappers, and it often takes months to remove a single one!"
"And then you find it's a carrot after all, or a slate pencil," I said. "Oh, yes, I know that joke; though, even as a little girl, I never thought it a particularly good one!"
He smilingly agreed with me. "But Nature has her practical jokes, too, you know, and occasionally revenges herself for all we've robbed her of."
I suppose he caught me glancing at the spark plug, for he suddenly pulled himself up, and his face changed.
"I fear I have taken a great liberty in telling you all this," he went on, in an earnest, troubled tone. "You must make allowances for a man who sees no one—a scientific Crusoe on a desert island, who, in the absorption of one great dominating idea, has forgotten all the petty rules, and, worse still, even runs the risk of proving himself a bore. This meeting, this little talk here in the woods, that means nothing to you, that will be forgotten ​in an hour, will remain with me for months to come, the most radiant of memories."
It was rather hard to know what to reply to this. He was so naïve in his admiration, so innocent of any presumption or offense, that it would have been brutal to snub him. Yet I couldn't very well stand there and let him run along on this line. Heaven only knows where he would have got to, because— Oh, well, because— A girl doesn't need a sixth sense to tell her when a man— It seemed a happy thought to turn his electrical abilities to account by asking him to look at my buzzer, and thus sidetrack any more embarrassing confidences. It was lucky I did so, for he found that one of the vibrators was sticking slightly, and had quite a fight to get it into proper shape. Then, when he had screwed down the plug, wired up, and put back the hood covers, he was simply forced to crank up and let me go.
"I suppose it is good-by forever?" he said, looking at me in the most appealing manner, ​and holding to the car as though it might suddenly jump up and fly away.
"I am afraid it is, Mr. Marsden," I said, glad to make the matter quite plain. "And much obliged for your kindness," and with that I speeded up, and left him disconsolately in the road. I peeped back through my little window, and felt quite sorry for him.
It was hard to be a pariah, and he was really a charming fellow and wonderfully handsome and nice. If he hadn't been the puzzle king, hadn't maddened a continent, I should have indulged in a little sentiment about him, and wiped away a tear. But a sense of the ridiculous forbade, and I had to smile at myself. Perhaps it helped as a protection. Isn't it strange when a person's eyes can haunt you, and you can hear the tones of his voice? I suppose it was just because he was so out of the ordinary, and unlike anybody I had ever met before; and he was fair, and I was dark—and, oh— Really how can anybody explain those things, anyway?
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