“Upon my honour!” cried he, “there was never before such a beautiful thing in Nature or Art as you look, ‘Cousin’ Tess (’Cousin’ had a faint ring of mockery).  I have been watching you from over the wall—­sitting like Im-patience on a monument, and pouting up that pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note.  Why, you are quite cross because you can’t do it.”

“I may be cross, but I didn’t swear.”

“Ah!  I understand why you are trying—­those bullies!  My mother wants you to carry on their musical education.  How selfish of her!  As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough work for any girl.  I would flatly refuse, if I were you.”

“But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow morning.”

“Does she?  Well then—­I’ll give you a lesson or two.”

“Oh no, you won’t!” said Tess, withdrawing towards the door.

“Nonsense; I don’t want to touch you.  See—­I’ll stand on this side of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel quite safe.  Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly.  There ’tis—­so.”

He suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of “Take, O take those lips away.”  But the allusion was lost upon Tess.

“Now try,” said d’Urberville.

She attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural severity.  But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of him, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note; laughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that she had laughed.

He encouraged her with “Try again!”

Tess was quite serious, painfully serious by this time; and she tried—­ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound.  The momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes enlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face.

“That’s it!  Now I have started you—­you’ll go on beautifully.  There—­I said I would not come near you; and, in spite of such temptation as never before fell to mortal man, I’ll keep my word...  Tess, do you think my mother a queer old soul?”

“I don’t know much of her yet, sir.”

“You’ll find her so; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her bullfinches.  I am rather out of her books just now, but you will be quite in favour if you treat her live-stock well.  Good morning.  If you meet with any difficulties and want help here, don’t go to the bailiff, come to me.”

It was in the economy of this regime that Tess Durbeyfield had undertaken to fill a place.  Her first day’s experiences were fairly typical of those which followed through many succeeding days.  A familiarity with Alec d’Urberville’s presence—­which that young man carefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly calling her his cousin when they were alone—­removed much of her original shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling which could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind.  But she was more pliable under his hands than a mere companionship would have made her, owing to her unavoidable dependence upon his mother, and, through that lady’s comparative helplessness, upon him.