Thus he had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everything would be in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that there would be no surprises in his visit.  But he had found that humdrum world in a terribly dynamic condition, in which even badinage and lyrism had turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had become the most fatal epoch of his life.  The next morning he felt so harassed with the nightmare of consequences—­ he dreaded so much the immediate issues before him—­that seeing while he breakfasted the arrival of the Riverston coach, he went out hurriedly and took his place on it, that he might be relieved, at least for a day, from the necessity of doing or saying anything in Middlemarch.  Will Ladislaw was in one of those tangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine, from the shallow absoluteness of men’s judgments.  He had found Lydgate, for whom he had the sincerest respect, under circumstances which claimed his thorough and frankly declared sympathy; and the reason why, in spite of that claim, it would have been better for Will to have avoided all further intimacy, or even contact, with Lydgate, was precisely of the kind to make such a course appear impossible.  To a creature of Will’s susceptible temperament—­without any neutral region of indifference in his nature, ready to turn everything that befell him into the collisions of a passionate drama—­the revelation that Rosamond had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was a difficulty which his outburst of rage towards her had immeasurably increased for him.  He hated his own cruelty, and yet he dreaded to show the fulness of his relenting:  he must go to her again; the friendship could not be put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was a power which he dreaded.  And all the while there was no more foretaste of enjoyment in the life before him than if his limbs had been lopped off and he was making his fresh start on crutches.  In the night he had debated whether he should not get on the coach, not for Riverston, but for London, leaving a note to Lydgate which would give a makeshift reason for his retreat.  But there were strong cords pulling him back from that abrupt departure:  the blight on his happiness in thinking of Dorothea, the crushing of that chief hope which had remained in spite of the acknowledged necessity for renunciation, was too fresh a misery for him to resign himself to it and go straightway into a distance which was also despair.

Thus he did nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach.  He came back again by it while it was still daylight, having made up his mind that he must go to Lydgate’s that evening.  The Rubicon, we know, was a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay entirely in certain invisible conditions.  Will felt as if he were forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and what he saw beyond it was not empire, but discontented subjection.