“That is what I meant,” interrupted Miss Norreys, pleased at being understood. “I did not mean—at least I was not just then thinking of the other side—the delights of true country life, of ‘quite, quite in the country’ life,” with a little smile.
“Oh!” said Winifred with a sigh. “If you knew what it was—all the year round—so monotonous, so narrow. I feel, since coming here, as if all my time hitherto had been wasted.”
“Poor child!” thought Miss Norreys, “a country parson’s daughter, I think Helena Campion said and, of course, poor. I can fancy the life must be rather terrible—grinding away to make both ends meet. Probably a lot of younger brothers and sisters. And she is evidently a clever girl—a girl of ideas.”
“It is never too late to mend,” she said, cheerfully. “You will go home enriched by a store of new thoughts and knowledge. I doubt if you would have benefited in the same way had you seen more of this wonderful—yes, it is wonderful—modern London life when you were younger. Though you are very young still.”
“No,” said Winifred, quaintly, with a little shake of her head, “I am not very young. And—I have come up to London with an object. I have waited so long, and I have tried to be patient! But now, at last, I do trust I am to find an opening. I must get something to do—a career. It was surely a good omen that I should have seen you, Miss Norreys, the very first day, for I feel you will sympathise with me—you who have risen above the stupid old-fashioned trammels so grandly. Of course I know there can be no comparison—you are a genius, I have only very ordinary powers very imperfectly trained. But I have determination and courage. I feel it is in me to do something—not to be condemned to the terribly narrow life, which is all I have to look to unless I succeed.”
She spoke so rapidly, and yet so earnestly, that Hertha could not attempt to stop her. Yet it was hardly the place or time for a personal discussion of the kind. Miss Norreys felt touched, and yet a trifle annoyed. It was scarcely fair of Lady Campion, who must have known all about this girl, to have encouraged her to thus appeal to her, a stranger, for advice and assistance. For, in plain English, these, no doubt, were what she was in want of.
“And what can I do for her?” thought Hertha. “My world is the musical world. She does not speak of any special gifts in that direction. Yet, poor girl, evidently she is in the right about doing something. I do sympathise with that. If I had had no music in me, no voice, or no distinct talent, still I could have done something, rather than drag on, striving to make both ends meet, with no energy left for better things, as some poor women do.”
These reflections passed through her mind, softening her momentary irritation. But for a few minutes she sat silent.
Winifred watched her intently.
“You will advise me?” she said at last, in a half-whisper. “You do sympathise with me?”