She put her chin on her knees once more, and once more she stared out at sea.
"There is no winter," she said, "except in people's hearts."
"There are no dead," I whispered to myself. In the suddenness of hearing her say it, it sounded as true as that.
"Explain that," said I.
"I can't," she replied. "It's just there is no winter. It's only a word—like saying it's twelve o'clock. There is no twelve o'clock. It's only that the sun's somewhere or other. That's just what it is in winter. In winter the sun's far away—it rains, the sky is grey, the sea is green. Cruikshank and I put on strong boots and mackintoshes and go out for miles into the country and all the time we keep saying, 'Do you remember the primroses in that ditch—do you remember the furze blossom on that bush?' Always 'Do you remember?' and not because they are gone for ever, but because we know that in that very spot we shall see those primroses again, that they are there, warm under the earth, ready and waiting to come up again, more luxuriant"—she screwed up her face over this word—"more luxuriant than ever."
"You're a wonderful woman," said I, suddenly.
What a fool I was. That broke the spell of it all. For suddenly she remembered that she was a woman; suddenly she became conscious of her sex. It was as though I had thrust a gag into her mouth, had frightened her into silence. I shall never succeed in making her talk like that again.
CHAPTER XIII
Cruikshank has looked up over the hedge of his garden and, for one moment, found the bitterness of the world. I have no doubt there is this hedge in every philosophy, over which it is dangerous to peep—a curtain which it is unwise to pull aside. Then it becomes a question, not of philosophy, but of courage; a question not of mind, but of spirit.
Such moments as these are bound to come; and, as it has been said of love and of hunger, so well may it be said of this—when Fear comes in at the door, then out of the window flies philosophy.