WINGS OF FORTUNE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20298, 7 May 1934, Page 12

WINGS OF FORTUNE

By

Author of “The Way of §=| Deception,” etc. §§§|

LESLIE BERESFORD.

CHAPTER ll.—Continued. She was perhaps faintly surprised, and was certainly a little flattered, at Mrs. Carmichael’s recognition and praise of her. She could remember doing nothing to deserve it, had paid no more attention to them than to anyone else when they stayed here for a few days a fortnight since. She had certainly been attracted to Mrs. Carmichael, partly because of her blonde loveliness, which Sylvia admired as much as she envied her ability to dress so smartly. Partly, too, Mrs. Carmichael’s charm of manner and air of friendliness had won over Sylvia’s natural reserve a little, persuading her into talk, even about herself, much more than was her custom with even closer acquaintances. It was very pleasing, anyhow, to find herself remembered in such a kind way. It was Sylvia’s experience that she rarely received even the barest thanks, let alone the praise of remembrance, from the self-centred and inconsiderate people who often made her day’s work much more difficult than was necessary, looking on the girl behind the counter as a mere machine without any feelings. Sylvia was more than usually tired when the time drew near for the bureau to close, and for her to prepare to go home. And perhaps that wearines* made her more than ever fretful in modd, mutinous over her lot. The prospect of the evening spent at the boarding house filled her afresh with thoughts of John Christopher Fellowes, speeding on his way to Southampton, and then on to gay Paris and the sunny Riviera, where life was eo bright and happy, and the people so different. Compare that with the company to which she was condemned at the only home she had. Some fifteen or twenty, a motley crowd. Business men and girls, like herself, but without any attractions for her. One of the first even a source of trouble to her, pestering her with his attentions. The thought of him made her dread the place to-night. He was becoming pressing, despite her repeated rejections of him. . . . At Sylvia’s elbow, as she was thinking of this, a telephone jangled raucously. She took up the receiver, and the slick voice of the hotel manager’s girl-secretary came through to her. “That you, Miss Danvers? Mr. Muir would like you to come to his private office at once.” The girl-secretary’s voice had a superior, disdainful note, and she cut off the line before Sylvia could say any more, or ask why she was wanted. It was very unusual for a sumji ons like this to come at this hour of the day. If one came at all, it generally meant that! something was wrong. Sylvia, who was 1 ready to leave in her coat and hat, began to try and think what she might have done, which she ought not to have done. But she could remember nothing as she made her way through the chattering groups of people in the entrance hall, among whom she noticed Mrs. Carmichael and her brother, who had just left the manager’s office «nd were walking towards the lifts. Mr. Muir himself stood, at the open door, and waited for her to reach him. “Come right in, my dear!” he said, leading the way through and settling down at his desk when the door was closed, motioning her to a chair. “Sit down. I’ve some news for you which, I’m afraid, isn’t going to be any more pleasant for you to hear than for me to tell you.” “Whatever is the matter, Mr. Muir?” Sylvia gasped, the colour suddenly fled from her face, her eyes wide with puzzled surprise over the gravity of his tone and face. “I haven’t made some serious mistake over something, have I?” “On the contrary, my dear! I’ve nothing but praise for the \vay you’ve done your work since I arranged your berth here for you. You’ve done everything to justify my helping you. And that's exactly why I feel so upset about what I have to tell you. “Of course,” he added, “you’ve heard rumours already of possible reductions in staff.” “Why, yes!” Sylvia stared, the truth slowly dawning on her now. “But you don't mean to tell me, Mr. Muir, that I—that I have to go?” ‘’Precisely that, my dear, I’m sorry to say.” “But—if I’ve done my work so well as you admit I have, Mr. Muir—surely that’s a reason why, if anyone has to go, it shouldn’t be me?” Sylvia protested. “In a way, that’s true. But, you see, that’s not the only point to be considered. One has to take a broad view when considering reductions. First of all, for instance, you are the last-joined of you three in the bureau. “Then again,” he went on, “the other two girls are v entirely dependent on their job, while you —well, there is always your aunt, who would help you, if the worst came to the worst.” “You don’t know my aunt, Mr. Muir!” Sylvia said. “She —” Sylvia hesitated to add what she might have explained. It was useless, it seemed, to say any more. She remembered suddenly how she had told John Christopher Fellowes that the sack was the last thing she expected, that she was a fixture here. And —she had touched wood. What silly things super, etitions were! “Well, that’s how the thing stands.” Mr. Muir was saying meantime regretfully. “I hate to be obliged to tell you this, because I’ve liked having you here, and I've liked feeling that Peter Darnlev’s daughter was doing well. Of course, you’ll soon get something else.” “I hope so!” Sylvia said, doubtfully. “But —it isn't so easy nowadays, Mr. Muir. And—the very last thing in the world I will do is to be dependent on my aunt —” “Well, well, my dear!” Mr. Muir rose from his desk and patted her on the shoulder. “There’s nothing like an independent spirit, I’ll agree. I admire you for it. I’ve no doubt that will pull you through this little trouble. I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. Something will turn up. “We’ll have another little talk about things, anyhow,” he added, and took Sylvia’s hands in li is fatherly grasp. “Meanwhile. I wonder if you would do one more job before you leave to-niglit, in spite of being under notice?” “Of course, Mr. Muir!” Sylvia smiled up at him with a wan attempt at bravery.

“Then will you just run up to No. 13 suite. You know Mrs. Carmichael? She especially asked me to send you to her. She wants to arrange about going from here to the Continent to-morrow, and I promised you should go up to get details.” “Certainly, Mr. Muir. I’ll go now.” Outside the office, once again in the warm and scented air of the bustling entrance hall, Sylvia was very near to tears, more than ever bitter in her revolt against the cruelty of fate which denied to her what it gave to others, the wings of fortune. John Christopher Fellowes had tolc her that they did not always make for safe flying. But he had flown on them. Mrs*. Carmichael was flying on them too, to-morrow. And to Sylvia, *fter helping them on their way, nothing was left but Malchester, and the haunting dread of long and perhaps hopeless search for work to keep away the spectre of starvation. CHAPTER 111. Dreams Come True. A few minutes later Sylvia was stand* ing in the luxurious sitting room of Mis. Carmichael’s suite. Mrs. Carmichael herself was greeting her in her friendly way, her beautiful dark eyes resting on Sylvia with a caress as soft as velvet. “Thank you for coming so soon, my dear,” she was saying. “Mr. Muir told you what I wanted?” “He said you were going abroad tomorrow, and wanted me to get details from you, Mrs. Carmichael,” Sylvia responded. “Then sit down, my dear. We’ll talk about all that afterwards. I really made that an excuse for a quiet little chat with you.” Mrs. Carmichael made Sylvia settle herself comfortably in the deep settee drawn up near the fire which burned pleasantly in the grate. Sylvia could not help a twinge of envy as she leaned back comfortably among the cushions, her eyes contemplating the artistic luxury of her surroundings, so different from those which were her own lot. It was at lea,st more pleasant to sit here, talking to this beautiful and cultured woman, she told herself, than going home through the fog and wet of Malchester to that little suburban house and her aunt’s caustic tongue, which would be more caustic still when she heard that Sylvia had lost her berth. And to her intense surprise, she heard Mrs. Carmichael saying something about that matter which was wholly unexpected. “I was talking to Mr. Muir about you a good deal,” she was saying. “To my surprise, my dear, he told me that he was actually on the point of giving you notice.” “That’s just exactly what he has done. Mrs. Carmichael,” Sylvia nodded grimly, at the same time a little astonished that Mr. Muir had given such information to a visitor in this way. “And—l suppose you’re not feeling exactly happy about it, child?” Mrs. Carmichael said in her husky voice. “Feeling a little weepy, aren’t you?” “Well, it’s not much good crying, is it?” Sylvia suggested, trying to speak calmly. “All the same, I hadn’t in the least expected it, and it’s—well, it’s rather a nasty blow. I’m not in a position to lose a job of any sort, as it happens, and certainly not a good one, like this has been, Mrs. Carmichael.” Just at this moment a door opened, and Sylvia saw the figure of young Mr. Mallison saunter into the room, a cigarette between his lips, his good-looking face lighting up as he saw her. “Oh, so you’re here, Miss Darnlev ? That’s good!” He laughed, crossing the floor. “She’s just had her notice from the manager here, Tony; she’s feeling rather sore about it,” Mrs. Carmichael smiled up at him. To Sylvia's astonishment, he laughed. “Well, of course, that’s being silly under the circumstances, isn't it, Paula?” lie said. “Silly! Losing a job—Mr. Mallison —” Sylvia had begun to protest a little impatiently, when she stopped. Something she caught in the glance of amusement and understanding exchanged between brother and sister made her hesitate, gave her a sudden inspiration, persuaded her to draw a bow at a venture. “Mr. Carmichael —were you perhaps thinking of —of offering me some sort of position?” she breathed, half-doubtful half-believing she was right. “My dear!” Mrs. Carmichael, sitting beside her, took both Sylvia’s hands in her own, leaning towards her. “Something very much better than that, I can assure you. You must be prepared for something in the nature of a shock. Do you think you can stand one?” “What sort of a shock, Mrs. Carmichael?” Sylvia stared at her in puzzled amazement. “Supposing, my dear, you had no need at all to be anxious about any position?” murmured the other in her softly crooning voice. “Supposing you had one already, the independent position of a girl possessed of a very considerable fortune ?” (To be continued -fafly.)