CHAPTER VI
The Psychology of the Breaking-strain
With my entry into Nordenholt’s house I hoped to gain a clearer insight into certain sides of his character; for the possessions which a man accumulates about him serve as an index to his mind even when his reticence gives no clue to his nature. I had expected something uncommon, from what I had already seen of him; but my forecasts were entirely different from the reality.
The room into which he ushered me was spacious and high-ceilinged; a heavy carpet, into the pile of which my feet sank, covered the floor; a few arm-chairs were scattered here and there; and a closed roll-top desk stood in a corner. One entire side of the room was occupied by bookshelves. Beyond this, there was nothing. It was the simplest furnishing I had ever seen; and in the house of a multi-millionaire it astonished me. I had somehow expected to find lavishness in some form: art in one or other of its interpretations, or at any rate an indication of Nordenholt’s tastes. But this room defeated me by its very plainness. There appeared to be no starting-point for an analysis. To me it seemed a place where a man could think without distraction; and then, at the desk, put his thoughts into practical application.
As we entered, Nordenholt excused himself for a moment. He wished to give instructions to his secretary. Some telephoning had to be done at once; and then he would be at my disposal. I heard him go into the next room.
When I am left alone in a strange house with nothing to fill in my time, I gravitate naturally to the bookcases; so that now I mechanically moved over to the serried rows of shelves which lined one side of the room. Here at last I might get some clue to the workings of Nordenholt’s mind. Glancing along the backs of the volumes, I found that the first shelf contained only works on metaphysics and psychology. Somewhat puzzled by this selection, I passed from tier to tier, and still no other subject came in view. A rapid examination of the cases from end to end showed me that the entire library dealt with this single theme, the main bulk of the works being psychological.
This discovery overturned in my mind several nebulous conjectures which I had begun to form as to Nordenholt’s character. What sort of a man was this, a millionaire, reputed to be one of the shrewdest financiers of the day, who stocked his study entirely with psychological works among which not a single financial book of reference was to be found? Coupled with the stark simplicity of the furniture, this clue seemed unlikely to lead me far.
As I was pondering, the door opened and Nordenholt returned. While it was still ajar, I heard the trill of a telephone bell and a girl’s voice giving a number; then the door closed and cut off further sounds. Thus after ten minutes in his house I had gathered only three things about him: he was simple, almost Spartan, in his tastes; he was interested in psychology; and his secretary was a girl and not a man.
He came forward towards me; and again I had the sensation of command in his appearance. His great height and easy movements may have accounted for it in part; but I am taller than the average myself; so that it was not entirely this. Even now I cannot analyse the feeling which he produced, not on myself alone, but upon all those with whom he came in contact. Personal magnetism may satisfy some people as an explanation; but what is personal magnetism but a name? In some inexplicable manner, Nordenholt gave the impression of a vast reservoir of pent-up force, seldom unloosed but ever ready to spring into action if required; and in these unfathomable eyes there seemed to brood an uncanny and yet not entirely unsympathetic perception which chilled me with its aloofness and nevertheless drew me to him in some way which is not clear to me even now. Under that slow and minute inspection, eye to eye, I felt all my human littleness, all my petty weaknesses exposed and weighed; but I felt also that behind this unrelenting scrutiny there was a depth of understanding which struck an even balance and saved me from contempt. I can put it no better than that.
He motioned me to a chair and took another himself. For a few moments he remained silent; and when he spoke I was struck by the change in his tone. At the meeting, he had spoken decisively, almost bitterly at times; but now a ring of sadness entered into that great musical voice.
“I wonder, Flint,” he said, “I wonder if you understand what we have taken in hand to-day? I doubt if any of us see where all this is leading us. I see the vague outlines of it before us; but beyond a certain point one cannot go.”