“It is there in virtue of the life that is in it,” said Faber.

“Of course; that is a mere truism,” returned Wingfold, “equivalent to, It lives in virtue of life.  There is nothing spontaneous in that.  Its life must in some way spring from the true, the original, the self-existent life.”

“There you are begging the whole question,” objected the doctor.

“No; not the whole,” persisted the curate; “for I fancy you will yourself admit there is some blind driving law behind the phenomenon.  But now I will beg the whole question, if you like to say so, for the sake of a bit of purely metaphysical argument:  the law of life behind, if it be spontaneously existent, can not be a blind, deaf, unconscious law; if it be unconscious of itself, it can not be spontaneous; whatever is of itself must be God, and the source of all non-spontaneous, that is, all other existence.”

“Then it has been only a dispute about a word?” said Faber.

“Yes, but a word involving a tremendous question,” answered Wingfold.

“Which I give up altogether,” said the doctor, “asserting that there is nothing spontaneous, in the sense you give the word—­the original sense I admit.  From all eternity a blind, unconscious law has been at work, producing.”

“I say, an awful living Love and Truth and Right, creating children of its own,” said the curate—­“and there is our difference.”

“Yes,” assented Faber.

“Anyhow, then,” said Wingfold, “so far as regards the matter in hand, all we can say is, that under such and such circumstances life appears—­whence, we believe differently; how, neither of us can tell—­perhaps will ever be able to tell.  I can’t talk in scientific phrase like you, Faber, but truth is not tied to any form of words.”

“It is well disputed,” said the doctor, “and I am inclined to grant that the question with which we started does not immediately concern the great differences between us.”

It was rather hard upon Faber to have to argue when out of condition and with a lady beside to whom he was longing to pour out his soul—­his antagonist a man who never counted a sufficing victory gained, unless his adversary had had light and wind both in his back.  Trifling as was the occasion of the present skirmish, he had taken his stand on the lower ground.  Faber imagined he read both triumph and pity in Juliet’s regard, and could scarcely endure his position a moment longer.

“Shall we have some music?” said Wingfold. “—­I see the piano open.  Or are you one of those worshipers of work, who put music in the morning in the same category with looking on the wine when it is red?”

“Theoretically, no; but practically, yes,” answered Faber, “—­at least for to-day.  I shouldn’t like poor Widow Mullens to lie listening to the sound of that old water-wheel, till it took up its parable against the faithlessness of men in general, and the doctor in particular.  I can’t do her much good, poor old soul, but I can at least make her fancy herself of consequence enough not to be forgotten.”