Lady Bell kept as far as she could out of sight and sound of the Squire’s “rages;” but when they were over, leaving him in a condition of stupid exhaustion and dogged affront, she went her own way again, as if the rages had never been. Her way was very much the same way that she had pursued at St. Bevis’s, of carrying on always more listlessly her slender studies, and of working out idly her manifold minute devices. “Hadn’t you better take a sensible piece of work into your hands in place of reading fools’ verses and French books—no good comes from France—or wasting your time with trumpery drawing and flowering?” Thus Mr. Trevor had sought to lay the ungentle yoke on her in the first lustre of the honeymoon. “I thought all proper brought-up young women, whether they were Lady Bells or not, without a penny to bring to their husbands”—he illustrated the position candidly—“were taught to keep accounts, and help to make their own clothes, like my cousin at the parsonage, even if they could not raise paste and feed poultry.” “Let me tell you, sir,” retorted Lady Bell with considerable courage, “that though I am Lady Bell who never pretended to bring a penny to a husband—as it is not my fault that I have one—I can keep accounts, and help to make my clothes when it is needful. But I choose to have other occupations when those that you have been so good as to point out to me, fail me. I suppose you do not wish me to make accounts, that I may add them up, or to cut out and stitch together more clothes than I can wear? As for raising paste, I confess I have seen that left to the cook; and for poultry—we had only sparrows in town.” “A fig for town—a sink of corruption,” protested Mr. Trevor, reddening like a turkey-cock at the insulting idea that town could be held superior to Trevor Court. “I’m of the mind of Lord Mulcaster, who had it put into the articles of his marriage contract, that my lady was neither to go to town, nor to wear diamonds.” “I did not know that the question was of going to town or wearing diamonds,” cried Lady Bell with a grimace. “I thought you were speaking of raising paste and feeding poultry.” “Can’t you bide in your own house, Bell,” the Squire would bully his wife another time, because he himself seldom indulged in exercise beyond stumping to his offices, riding round a field or two on his cob, and playing a game of bowls or skittles with his servants. He was disturbed by the young girl’s girlish restlessness. He hated to have her doing what he did not care to do—without him too. “No, I can’t, Mr. Trevor. I must have breath and motion, if I can have nothing else,” Lady Bell said plainly. Lady Bell remained a stranger in her husband’s house, in the plenty and snugness of Trevor Court, as in the barrenness and exposure of St. Bevis’s. She was in greater isolation than ever; for there was no Mr. Greenwood, and no Sneyd—friendly scamps—at Trevor Court.