she contrived to have reported to Bulwer-Lytton as an illness. She
begged for an interview, and he went with reluctance to bid her farewell
for ever. It was Bulwer-Lytton's habit to take with him a masterpiece of
literature upon every journey. It seems unfortunate that on this
occasion _The Tempest_ was not his companion, for it might have warned
him, as Prospero warned Ferdinand, against the fever in the blood:--

"No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow; but barren hate,
Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall bestrew
The union of your bed, with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it, both."

When his short interview, which was to have been a final one, was over,
that had happened which made a speedy marriage necessary, whatever the
consequences might be.

The new conditions were clearly stated to old Mrs. Bulwer-Lytton, but
that formidable lady belonged to an earlier generation, and saw no
reason for Quixotic behaviour. Her conscience had been trained in the
eighteenth century, and all her blame was for Rosina Wheeler. Torn
between his duty and his filial affection, Bulwer-Lytton now passed
through a period of moral agony. He wrote to his mother: "I am far too
wretched, and have had too severe a contest with myself, not to look to
the future rather with despondency than pleasure, and the view you take
of the matter is quite enough to embitter my peace of mind." Miss
Wheeler, not unnaturally stung to anger, used disrespectful expressions
regarding Mrs. Bulwer-Lytton, and these bickerings filled the lover and
son with indignation. His life, between these ladies, grew to be hardly
worth living, and in the midst of one such crisis this brilliant young