The House of Seven Fountains

by Anne Weale

  Horrified at this violent turn of events, Vivien did as she was told. She found the car a few yards down the road and sank into the passenger seat with a long gasp of relief. Her knees were shaking, and she felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in her face. That Julian, whom she had always thought of as being wholly civilized, should behave like a drunken lout was a shattering discovery.

  It seemed a long time before Tom came out of the gate and strode toward her. She wondered if he blamed her for the incident and if, as on two previous occasions, he would shrivel her with the biting sarcasm of which he was capable.

  But as he got in beside her and switched on the interior light she saw that his expression was not the tight-lipped censure that she had dreaded.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry I had to do that in front of you.”

  “Is he all right?” she asked worriedly.

  “Yes, just dazed. His man will look after him. How about you?” He gave her a searching look.

  “I’m fine. How did you happen to be there?”

  “I had an idea he might get out of hand, so I followed you.”

  “I’m glad you did. I wasn’t at all happy about walking home in the dark.”

  He started the car.

  “You haven’t said I told you so,” she said as they moved off.

  Tom gave her a brief, quizzical look. “Last time I interfered in your affairs you told me to mind my own business. I’m not stretching my luck,” he said dryly.

  They did not speak for the rest of the drive, but it was a companionable silence. When they reached the house Tom parked the car and looked at his watch.

  “It’s almost three o’clock. May I come in for a moment or two?”

  Vivien nodded.

  The hall light was on, and Chen had left a flask of coffee and a muslin-covered tray of sandwiches on the trolley. He had also put out the whiskey decanter and soda siphon.

  “Shall we go into the courtyard?” she suggested, leading the way while Tom steered the cart.

  “Do you think it would wake everyone up if I turned on the fountains?” she asked softly.

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  She tossed her handbag and stole onto the swing couch and went over to the switch.

  There was a moment of hushed stillness, a faint rustling sound and then ... like molten diamonds ... the seven jets soared into the moonlight.

  “Everyone should have a fountain in their garden,” she said as they sat down and Tom poured the coffee. “I think however worried or upset anyone was, if they watched a fountain they’d find all their difficulties ebbing away;” She laughed. “And, of course, it’s much cheaper than going to a psychiatrist.”

  Tom grinned. “You’re happy in this house, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. I suppose it’s foolish to let myself become too happy here. It’s such a temptation not to think about the future, but I shall have to before long. I can’t be an idle butterfly forever.”

  She rested her head on the cushions and watched the moonlight glancing through the branches of the frangipani tree. “In a way, living here has made me understand why people shut themselves away from the world.”

  “You mean in monasteries and convents?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t think that one can evade the world like that,” he said thoughtfully. “For a time it might seem very serene and restful, but after a while you’d begin to miss the challenges and satisfactions of a normal existence. Besides, you’d be cutting yourself off from the primary function of a woman’s life ... bearing children.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like the old saw about a woman’s place being in the home,” Vivien murmured dryly.

  “I believe that it is.”

  “But supposing a woman has a career that means a great deal to her, say, teaching or medicine? Do you think it’s right that she should waste training and talent by giving it up in favor of domesticity?”

  “How many women do have careers? Most of them earn their living now, but I imagine the majority of them—the typists and shopgirls—are glad to give up their jobs to be wives and mothers.”

  “You’re dodging the point. What about the ones who have real careers?”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in their carrying on with their work providing it doesn’t distract them from their personal responsibilities.”

  “You mean they should always fit in with their husband’s plans even if it interferes with their own projects?”

  He set down his coffee cup and lighted a cigarette.

  “Yes. In a divergence of that sort the woman should give way. In any man-woman relationship the man should be the dominant partner. It’s a principle that goes right back to primitive times when men were hunters and warriors. If you deny that principle you set up all kinds of damaging conflicts.”

  “Surely a compromise is possible now that we aren’t primitive any longer?” she suggested.

  “There shouldn’t be any need for a compromise,” he said flatly. “In a really good relationship the woman doesn’t contest her husband’s authority on major issues. She’s content to let him steer the course.”

  He looked sideways at her.

  “I suppose you think that’s a Victorian outlook?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. In fact, I agree with you.”

  There was a pause and after a minute she got up and walked to the edge of the pool. A fallen leaf rocked gently to and fro on the quiet surface of the water, and leaning forward, Vivien saw her face reflected in the moonlight depths. A gust of air blew a light veil of moisture over her head, and she moved around the stone rim and held out her hands, letting the fountain sprinkle a cascade of silvered drops on her warm skin.

  “The spirit of the fountain,” Tom said from behind her. She swung around, laughing up at him, her wet palms pressed against her cheeks.

  Then her laugh died away, and she drew a quick uncertain breath. For a long moment they stared at each other. Very slowly Tom reached out and took her wrists and drew her toward him.

  “Mem! Mem!”

  The voice impinged on her reluctant consciousness like a distant noise penetrating the mists of sleep.

  It was not until Tom bit back a savage expletive and dropped her wrists that she recognized the urgent imperative sound of the call. At the same instant Chen hurried through the archway that led to the servants’ quarters. He was buttoning his jacket as he came and his usually sleek black hair was standing on end. But even in his haste he remembered to bow as he reached them.

  “I apologize for disturbing the mem at this hour...”

  “What’s the matter?” Tom said briskly, cutting short the preamble.

  “There has been an accident in the village, tuan. A young girl is hurt. The people need help.”

  “Vivien, my bag is in the car. Run and fetch it. Take me to the house where the girl is, Chen. The mem will follow.” As he rapped out the instructions he stripped off his jacket and cummerbund and began rolling up his sleeves.

  Vivien snatched up her long skirts and ran through the house. When she got back to the courtyard with the bag the others had disappeared, and she raced across the garden toward the narrow path that led to the settlement. The track was bordered by ferns that dragged at her dress as she passed. At one point, where the hillside sloped sharply, rough steps had been cut, and as she scrambled down them her high-heeled slippers sank into the soft earth. Twice she almost lost her balance and fell.

  She had no difficulty in finding the house, for the whole village had congregated outside. The crowd made way for her to pass, and she ducked under the low lintel and entered the single room with its beaten earth floor and thatched walls. The injured girl, a Malay child of about twelve years old, was lying on a dilapidated charpoy with her parents on one side and Tom on the other. The rest of the family were huddled in the background, and Chen was standing at the foot of the bed holding up an oil lamp.

  As Vivien arrived
Tom spoke to Chen in rapid Cantonese, and Chen thrust the lamp at the girl’s father and rushed out of the house.

  Then Tom spoke to the parents. Vivien could not follow what he said, but she saw the fear in their eyes and the woman gave a wail of anguish and, falling to her knees, began to mumble something that sounded like a prayer.

  Finally, Tom turned to Vivien and took the bag from her.

  “Good girl,” he said briefly. “I’ve sent Chen back to the house to telephone for an ambulance and tell the hospital what to expect. As you can see, the girl’s been badly burned. I was just in time to stop them from daubing grease on her. As it is we can’t treat her for shock until the ambulance gets here. The blankets are bound to be dirty, and I can’t risk septic absorption. Hold the lamp, will you? The old man’s in such a state he’ll probably drop it.”

  As he talked he snapped open his bag and took out a packet of sterile lint to cover the exposed areas of burned skin. As the material touched her the girl gave an agonized moan. Her thin hands clawed at the straw paillasse and great beads of sweat broke out on her contorted face.

  The doctor spoke to her in Malay, and she stared up at him with the mute supplication of a tormented animal. He felt her pulse, and Vivien saw his mouth tighten. It seemed an eternity since Chen had left the hut and yet she knew it could not be more than two or three minutes. How long before the ambulance arrived?

  The girl’s face, normally the warm mocha shade of her race, now had a sickly gray pallor. Her lips were bluish and her breath came slowly and weakly, like faint sighs. In spite of the humid atmosphere in the hut and the gleam of sweat on her forehead she was shivering.

  Suddenly she began to moan, twisting her head on the pillow as if seeking to escape the brands of pain searing her body.

  Tom tested her pulse again and then with swift, economical movements he swabbed her upper arm with antiseptic lotion and gave her an injection. Her eyelids flickered and she gave a final whimper, her body slackening as the drug took hold.

  At last, after an interminable interval, there was a cry of excitement from the people outside the hut, and with an upsurge of relief Vivien heard the throb of an engine jolting over the uneven ground. Five minutes later it was all over. The girl was safely transferred to the ambulance, and with Tom and her parents accompanying her, she was on her way to the hospital.

  Left behind, Vivien tried to convince the relatives and friends that all would be well. She was still reassuring them as best she could with her limited Malay vocabulary when Chen returned, and presently she followed him back to the house, her shoulders drooping with weariness and reaction from the strain of those dragging minutes while they had waited for help to arrive.

  At MIDMORNING the telephone rang, and Vivien dashed into the hall and snatched up the receiver.

  “Mauping forty-three.”

  “Vivien? Tom here.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you called. How is the girl?” she asked quickly.

  “I think we’ve pulled her through.”

  “I’m so glad. I meant to go down to the village before breakfast but I’m afraid I overslept.”

  “Poor child, it was a harrowing ending to the evening, wasn’t it?”

  Did she imagine it, or was there a special meaning in his voice?

  “Yes, it was rather,” she agreed. “Have you found out how it happened?”

  “Yes. It seems that ... what?” He broke off and she could hear him talking to someone at the other end of the line. “Hello? Sorry about that. Look, I can’t explain now. I phoned to ask if you feel too tired to come to a Malay wedding feast with me tonight.”

  Her heart leaped. “I would love to,” she said eagerly.

  “Right. I’ll pick you up about four. Till then...”

  She heard the receiver click at his end.

  “Till then...” she murmured happily.

  The morning mail included an airmail envelope from England. Inside Vivien found three, thin pages in her aunt’s close handwriting. The tone of the letter was surprisingly conciliatory, but reading between the lines, she suspected that her aunt’s temper had been cooled by the discovery that life did not run so smoothly without the help of an unpaid factotum. She put it aside to answer later and went down to the settlement to see the parents of the girl who had been burned. When she returned to the house Chen told her that a Mr. Wong from Kuala Lumpur was waiting to see her.

  Mr. Wong was enormously fat, expensively dressed in a cream linen suit with a jazzy American tie and brown and white shoes. His front teeth were rimmed with gold, and he wore a large solitaire diamond on the little finger of his right hand. He spoke excellent English with a slightly American accent.

  Vivien sensed that Chen did not like him, but then Chen was a snob and often spoke disparagingly of the wealthy Chinese tycoons who aped Europeans.

  Mr. Wong wasted no time with the conventional “politeness” talk. He had come, he announced, because he had heard that Miss Connell wished to sell the house. For some time he had been looking for a country residence. He was prepared to pay eighty thousand dollars for the House of Seven Fountains and the surrounding estate.

  Vivien swallowed a gasp. Then she could not help smiling. Six months ago she had had nothing but the meager allowance that Aunt Constance gave her. Now, out of the blue, a complete stranger was offering her the fantastic sum of eighty thousand dollars.

  Mr. Wong must have misinterpreted the smile, for he leaned forward and made an expansive gesture with his pudgy hands.

  “Not enough, eh? Okay. Let’s say ninety thousand dollars. ”

  “But I haven’t decided definitely that I’m going to sell, Mr. Wong,” she protested. “In any case I should have to consult my solicitor before considering your offer.”

  He nodded agreeably. “Sure, sure. You think it over.”

  Half an hour later, when he had climbed into an opulent turquoise Cadillac driven by a uniformed chauffeur, Vivien changed into a bathing suit and went down to the swimming pool. Floating in the warm water, she thought over the extraordinary interview. Before he left Mr. Wong had presented her with an elaborately engraved business card from which she had learned that he was the owner of two amusement parks, a hotel and three movie houses.

  She knew that there were many millionaires in Malaya, some of whom had come to the Federation as poor immigrants and built up great commercial empires with no greater assets than tireless industry, extreme thrift and business acumen. Probably Mr. Wong was one of them. Certainly he was very wealthy if he could afford to pay so highly for a country house.

  Supposing she accepted his offer? The money would mean permanent independence on a comfortable, even luxurious scale. Yet independence, which had once seemed so desirable—and so impossible—had suddenly lost its attraction. To be independent meant to be alone with no restrictions and no ties, but where could she go and what could she do?

  No, if Mr. Wong had made his offer some weeks ago she might have been tempted to accept it. But now everything had changed.

  After lunch she found a book in the library that described Malay customs, including a chapter on muslim wedding ceremonies, and settled down in the courtyard to prime herself with any necessary etiquette in readiness for the evening.

  Just after half-past three Chen came out and said that Tuan Barclay wished to see her.

  For a minute Vivien was inclined to say she was not at home to Tuan Barclay. It wouldn’t do Julian any harm to be given the cold shoulder for a while, and she was not in the mood to deal with him. But, after drumming her fingers thoughtfully for a moment or two, she relented and told Chen to show him in.

  “Shall I serve tea, mem?”

  “No, thank you. Not at the moment.”

  When Julian appeared she was intent on her book and only when Chen coughed and said, “Tuan Barclay, mem,” did she look up.

  “Good afternoon,” she said coolly. “Will you sit down?”

  He remained standing and looked so acutely embarrassed tha
t she was almost sorry for him.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to apologize for last night,” he said awkwardly. “The fact is I was pretty drunk. I know that’s no excuse and I admit I behaved like a swine, but I want you to know that I’m honestly sorry.”

  He half turned as if to go but she said “Julian,” and he waited.

  “I accept your apology. Shall we try to forget what happened?”

  “Can you?” he asked soberly.

  “I think so.” She held out her hand.

  “Bless you,” he said softly.

  “Now, sit down, and I’ll tell you what happened when I got home.” She indicated the chair beside her and recounted the final events of the previous night.

  “Good Lord, what a shocking thing. Lucky Stransom was here,” Julian said.

  “Yes, now I believe in the old saying about an ill wind,” Vivien said wickedly.

  The color came up under his tan, and she put a hand on his arm to show that she had not meant it unkindly.

  He looked down at the slim coral-tipped fingers resting on his sleeve and a strange expression crossed his face. Then, covering her hand with his own, he said in a low voice, “Vivien ...will you marry me?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Vivien’s eyes widened incredulously.

  “You can’t be serious!” she said in a shocked voice.

  “Yes, I am. Perhaps this isn’t a very good moment to ask you, but it wasn’t until last night ... after I’d sobered up ... that I realized how I felt about you.”

  “How do you feel about me?” she asked seriously.

  He stood up and began pacing about in front of her.

  “Perhaps you believe in the old saying that a leopard can’t change its spots,” he began. “I’ll admit that I’d never considered marriage seriously until ... well, until last night, I suppose. It suddenly hit me how darned empty life would be if you refused to see me anymore. Look, I’m not making a very good job of this, but the truth is that you’re the first woman who’s ever made me feel it would be pretty good to settle down and grow some roots. I know I’m not much of a catch, my dear, but we could have a lot of fun together and I’d do my best to make you happy.”