WHILE SHELLING PEAS
Miss Jean, spick and span in a cool dress of wash fabric, took a
critical survey of herself in the mirror, and adjusted a wide shade hat
at exactly the right angle. Then, taking a bright tin pan she sallied
forth into the afternoon sun. Her course led her back of the house,
through the orchard, and finally to a garden patch a couple of acres in
extent. There, by a strange coincidence, Chetwood was working among the
plants. At sight of her he paused, straightened his back and leaned upon
his hoe.
"Oh, are _you_ here?" said Miss Jean in tones of extreme surprise.
Chetwood looked down at his feet, tapped his head and finally pinched
himself.
"Rather," he announced gravely. "At least my mortal body seems to be."
"Don't let me interrupt you," said Miss Jean. "I came to pick peas."
"I'll help you."
"I don't require help, thanks."
"You might get thorns in your fingers."
"Peas haven't thorns!" said Miss Jean scathingly. "You ought to know
that by this time."
"Observation has taught me that in this world one finds thorns in the
most unexpected places. Even roses--fragrant, blushing roses--"
"Don't be absurd!"
"Then let me help you pick peas."
"But the garden needs hoeing."
"The bally thing always needs hoeing," Chetwood commented with deep
resentment. "It has an insatiable desire to be tickled with a hoe. What
a world it would be if weeds would die as easily as plants, and plants
thrive as carelessly as weeds. Bright thought, what?"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Jean.
"Oh, I say! It's really profound."
"It's profoundly silly. You had better stick to the hoe."
"My back is broken."
"Well," Miss Jean relented, "you may help me if you like."
On either side of tall vines trained on brush they began to pick the
big, fat Telephones. Now and then, in the tangle of the vines, their
fingers touched, as both reached for the same pod.
"This beats hoeing," Chetwood announced.
"I'm afraid you're lazy."
"I am. I always was. But to help a girl, especially a pret--"
"If you are going to be silly I shall go to the other end of the row."
"'O stay,' the young man said, 'and rest thy weary head up--'"
Miss Jean promptly picked up the pan and marched to the other end of the
row. Chetwood followed her.
"They _are_ better here," he said. "It's a genuine pleasure to pick such
peas together." Miss Jean did not reply. "Don't you like to pick peas
with me?"
"When you talk sensibly I don't object. There, the pan's full. Thanks
very much."
"And now we'll shell them."
"I'll take them to the house to shell."
"Please don't. Here is shade, running water, the company of an
industrious young man. You can't overlook a combination like that--if
you have a heart."
"It _is_ nice shade," Miss Jean admitted.
They sat in it, the pan piled with peas between them, and began to
shell. Miss Jean's hand diving for a pea, encountered Chetwood's and was
held fast.
"Mr. Chetwood!"
Without relinquishing his prize that gentleman set the pan aside and
with considerable agility seated himself beside Miss Jean.
"My full name is Eustace William Fitzroy Chetwood. I prefer the second.
William is a respectable name. Do you know what it means?"
"I didn't know it meant anything."
"Oh, yes; it means 'Bill.' I answer beautifully to 'Bill.'"
"Will--"
"'Bill'!"
"Will you please let go my hand?"
"'What we have we hold' is a good motto. It seems a sound system to hold
what I have."
Miss Jean sighed. "Then of course I can't shell peas, and you won't have
any for supper."
"Hang supper! Jean, darling, how long are you going to keep me in
suspense?"
"I'm not keeping you at all; and you mustn't call me 'darling.'"
"Are you going to keep me waiting seven years, as Rebecca kept Joseph?"
"It wasn't Rebecca or Joseph."
"Well, it doesn't matter; I had the waiting part of it right. I can feel
the strain telling on me, and when I look into your eyes--like this--"
Here Miss Jean shut her eyes. Chetwood being human did the natural
thing. Miss Jean wrenched her hand away and rubbed her cheek.
"How dare you!" she demanded with really first-class indignation.
"I don't know; but like Warren Hastings, I am astonished at my own
moderation. I should have kissed you before. And I am going to kiss you
again."
Though the prospect did not seem to dismay Miss Jean, she removed
herself swiftly to a distance of several feet, and further consolidated
her position by placing the pan of peas between them.
"Shell peas--Eustace!" she said. Chetwood ground a set of perfect teeth.
"You want to drive me crazy, I see that," he said. "You're too dangerous
to be running around loose. You need a firm hand--like mine. Now--"
What followed was very bad for the peas. Some minutes later Miss Jean,
raising hands to a flushed face and sadly tilted hat, regarded them in
dismay.
"Now see what you've done!"
Chetwood grinned. "Will you carry sweet peas?" he asked. "If we are
married early in September--"
"September!" Miss Jean gasped. "I couldn't think of such a thing,
Bil--ly!"
"You can when you get used to it," Chetwood assured her. "Like getting
into hot water, you know."
"It may be a good deal like it," Miss Jean observed reflectively.
"Eh! Oh, I didn't mean that."
"I know you didn't, but it might be true, all the same. We can't be
married for a long time."
"Why can't we?" the lover demanded.
"For a number of perfectly good reasons," Jean replied, a grave little
pucker coming upon her forehead.
"Wrinkles!" cried Chetwood. "But I'll love you just as much when--"
"Well, goodness knows, I've enough worries without getting married."
"Cynic!"
"Maybe, but I hope I have some horse sense. Now to start with,
Billy--and please don't be offended--I'd like you to make good, more or
less, before I marry you."
"In what way?"
"Well, I'd like you to have a ranch of your own."
"Any special one?"
"Don't joke about it," Jean reproved him. "You'll find it serious
enough. As you haven't any money now you can't buy a ranch. And so
you'll have to homestead."
Chetwood stared at her for a moment and gulped. "I keep forgetting I'm a
hired man. Go on."
"It's doing you good. You're getting a knowledge of ranching. I think
you know almost enough now to take up a homestead."
"But," Chetwood objected, "I'd have to live on the blinking thing in a
beastly, lonely shack."
"Plenty of good men have lived in lonely shacks."
"I didn't mean that. I meant that I shouldn't see you more than perhaps
four or five times a week. Now--"
"You may not see me at all. I'll tell you why, presently. Anyway, I
wouldn't let you waste your time. I'm serious. You see, Billy--" here
Miss Jean blushed--"you'd be working on your homestead for--for _us_."
"Oh, Lord!" said Chetwood. "That is--I mean--yes, of course. Inspiring
thought and all that sort of thing, what? But how much nicer it would be
if I were able to look forward to seeing you in our humble door as I
came home weary from my daily toil, with--er--roses and honeysuckle and
all that sort of thing clambering about don't you know, and the sweet
odor of--of--"
"Of what, Billy?" Miss Jean prompted softly, in her eyes the expression
of one who gazes upon a fair mental picture. "Of what, Billy?"
"Of pies," Chetwood replied raptly. "Ah! Um!"
"Of wha--a--t!" Miss Jean cried, coming out of her reverie with a start.
"Of pies cooking," Chetwood repeated. "Nice, juicy pies."
"Pies--bah!" Miss Jean ejaculated.
"Say not so," Chetwood responded. "I admire pie. The land of my birth, I
sadly admit, is deficient in pie. But here I adopt the customs of the
country. I am what might be called a pie--oneer--"
"Ugh! Awful!" Miss Jean shuddered.
"Now I thought that quite bright."
"That's the saddest part of it."
"My word, what a--er--slam! Strange that you should feel such a sincere
affection for--"
"I don't know whether I do or not!"
"Then, Miss Mackay," Chetwood demanded, "what is the meaning of your
conduct?"
Miss Jean bit her lip, blushed, and finally decided to laugh. "I was
getting sentimental for a moment," she confessed. "Your little word
picture had me going. And all the time you were fooling. That's
dangerous, young man."
"No, on my word I wasn't," Chetwood protested. "I meant it. Only I got
stuck for a word, and I just happened to think of--pie."
"I'm glad you did," Jean admitted. "What I like about you is that you're
cheerful all the time. Angus sulks like a--a mule. So does Turkey. Oh, I
do, too. We all do. But you always have a smile and a joke, though
sometimes they're awful."
"Both of 'em?"
"The smiles are all right," Jean admitted. "But do you know, I've never
seen you serious about anything. And it seems to me that a man who has
a--well, a real purpose in life should be--now and then."
"Perhaps I never had one."
"Well, now you've got me."
"Eh! By Jove, so I have. I'll live in a shack if you say so, but I'd
rather stay on here a bit. I'm learning all the time."
"That brings me to another reason. There may be no 'here' to stay on
at--so far as we are concerned."
She told him the situation briefly. "And so, you see, we may not have a
ranch at all. Then Angus would go away and take up land, and I might go
with him."
"So would I if he'd have me. It would be rather jolly."
"Nonsense!" said Jean. "Making a new ranch isn't fun; it's hard work.
And then, on top of it all, what do you think Angus is going to do?"
"Wring old Braden's neck, I hope."
"He's going to get married!"
"Hooray!" cried Chetwood. "Nail the flag to the mast! Derry walls and no
surrender! Give hostages--er--I mean that's the spirit. Also an example.
Let's follow it. What's sauce for the Mackay gander ought to be sauce
for--er--"
"I'm not a goose," she pouted prettily.
"Duck!" Chetwood suggested.
"Don't be silly. It's a different proposition entirely."
"Why?" Jean did not reply. "Why, Jean?"
"Because Angus can look after himself--and a wife."
Chetwood's perennially cheerful expression sobered. "That's rather a
hard one. I'm not quite helpless, really."
"I'm sorry," Jean said simply. "But I meant just what I said. The
country is new to you and you're new to the country, and we can't be
married till you find yourself. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm
putting it up to you to make good, Billy."
Chetwood nodded soberly, but his eyes smiled.
"I'll make good," he said. "I'll go and see this Judge Riley--about a
homestead. And now, Jean darling, will you oblige me by the size of that
pretty little third finger."
"You are not to spend any money on rings. Keep it for the homestead."
"Oh da--er--I mean high heaven hates a piker. Can't allow you to go
ringless. It's not done, really. I'm going to have my own way. Nothing
elaborate. Just a simple, little ring, costing, say, fifty pounds--"
"Fifty pounds!" Jean gasped. "Two hundred and fifty dollars! Why, I
couldn't--"
"Does sound more in dollars. Tell you what I'll do. I have a ring at
home. It belonged to my mother. I'll send for it if you don't mind."
"I should be proud of your mother's ring," said Jean.
"I think," said Chetwood, "that she would be proud to have you wear it."
"Billy," said Jean, "that's just the nicest thing you ever said--or ever
will say."