CHAPTER XVI. WHEN MY GEORGE IS AWAY. Osborne's mind was finally made up. He would not again speak to Marie under his mother's roof. He would go away, not only from the house, but from Stratford. He would go back to London; not of course to Mrs Barclay's, but to some other quiet place, and there await Marie's ultimate decision. He would put the issue plainly before her and let her decide. The situation was most awkward and embarrassing. But, as far as he was concerned, it was only awkward and embarrassing. It might seem cruel to leave Marie without a word; but if he met Marie again in this house it would be impossible for him to deal with the whole question, and it would be unwise to treat of merely a part. For aught he knew to the contrary, Marie would leave this house as soon as he had gone. That was a thing he could not advocate for many reasons. In the first place, it would be undignified and unworthy of him and her. In the second place, people would be sure to put a number of most unjustifiable and injurious constructions on such an act. He himself was quite above caring for what people said, but Marie's name must not be placed at their disposal. No; he should take no advantage. In fact, he would rather place difficulties in the way than seek easy means to his ends. Yes, he did not mind difficulties. He preferred that there should be difficulties. He did not care how many or how great these difficulties were. In fact, he cared for only one thing now, namely, the absolute certainty that in the end Marie should be his wife. All his life he had been placid, docile; but he had never been crossed by anyone in his schemes or plans. So long as he felt he and he alone was responsible for Marie, he had been a martyr to scrupulosity. But now someone else--his mother--had sought to divide either his responsibility with regard to Marie, or with regard to himself, and he no longer hesitated or doubted. He had questioned his own ability to dispose of the situation; but the moment someone else showed a desire, not only to question his ability to govern the position, but actively interfered to prevent his action, he rose in revolt. It was not against his mother personally he rose, but against the idea that he was not able to take care of himself and Marie. In fact, the personality of his mother almost wholly disappeared in the question. The problem had been shifted from, 'Should I allow her to incur this risk?' to, 'Am I not able to take care of her and myself in any case of difficulty or danger?' He answered himself passionately a thousand times that no one could take such care of Marie as he, for no one else loved her so well. But while he was quite firm as to his resolution of marrying her, no matter who might say nay, he was equally resolved not to expose her to any adverse comment from which he could save her.