The Cobweb by Saki

The farmhouse kitchen probably stood where it did as a matter of accident or haphazard choice; yet its situation might have been planned by a master-strategist in farmhouse architecture.  Dairy and poultry-yard, and herb garden, and all the busy places of the farm seemed to lead by easy access into its wide flagged haven, where there was room for everything and where muddy boots left traces that were easily swept away.  And yet, for all that it stood so well in the centre of human bustle, its long, latticed window, with the wide window-seat, built into an embrasure beyond the huge fireplace, looked out on a wild spreading view of hill and heather and wooded combe.  The window nook made almost a little room in itself, quite the pleasantest room in the farm as far as situation and capabilities went.  Young Mrs. Ladbruk, whose husband had just come into the farm by way of inheritance, cast covetous eyes on this snug corner, and her fingers itched to make it bright and cosy with chintz curtains and bowls of flowers, and a shelf or two of old china.  The musty farm parlour, looking out on to a prim, cheerless garden imprisoned within high, blank walls, was not a room that lent itself readily either to comfort or decoration.

“When we are more settled I shall work wonders in the way of making the kitchen habitable,” said the young woman to her occasional visitors.  There was an unspoken wish in those words, a wish which was unconfessed as well as unspoken.  Emma Ladbruk was the mistress of the farm; jointly with her husband she might have her say, and to a certain extent her way, in ordering its affairs.  But she was not mistress of the kitchen.

On one of the shelves of an old dresser, in company with chipped sauce-boats, pewter jugs, cheese-graters, and paid bills, rested a worn and ragged Bible, on whose front page was the record, in faded ink, of a baptism dated ninety-four years ago.  “Martha Crale” was the name written on that yellow page.  The yellow, wrinkled old dame who hobbled and muttered about the kitchen, looking like a dead autumn leaf which the winter winds still pushed hither and thither, had once been Martha Crale; for seventy odd years she had been Martha Mountjoy.  For longer than anyone could remember she had pattered to and fro between oven and wash-house and dairy, and out to chicken-run and garden, grumbling and muttering and scolding, but working unceasingly.  Emma Ladbruk, of whose coming she took as little notice as she would of a bee wandering in at a window on a summer’s day, used at first to watch her with a kind of frightened curiosity.  She was so old and so much a part of the place, it was difficult to think of her exactly as a living thing.  Old Shep, the white-nozzled, stiff-limbed collie, waiting for his time to die, seemed almost more human than the withered, dried-up old woman.  He had been a riotous, roystering puppy, mad with the joy of life, when she was already a tottering, hobbling dame; now he was just a blind, breathing carcase, nothing more, and she still worked with frail energy, still swept and baked and washed, fetched and carried.  If there were something in these wise old dogs that did not perish utterly with death, Emma used to think to herself, what generations of ghost-dogs there must be out on those hills, that Martha had reared and fed and tended and spoken a last good-bye word to in that old kitchen.  And what memories she must have of human generations that had passed away in her time.  It was difficult for anyone, let alone a stranger like Emma, to get her to talk of the days that had been; her shrill, quavering speech was of doors that had been left unfastened, pails that had got mislaid, calves whose feeding-time was overdue, and the various little faults and lapses that chequer a farmhouse routine.  Now and again, when election time came round, she would unstore her recollections of the old names round which the fight had waged in the days gone by.  There had been a Palmerston, that had been a name down Tiverton way; Tiverton was not a far journey as the crow flies, but to Martha it was almost a foreign country.  Later there had been Northcotes and Aclands, and many other newer names that she had forgotten; the names changed, but it was always Libruls and Toories, Yellows and Blues.  And they always quarrelled and shouted as to who was right and who was wrong.  The one they quarrelled about most was a fine old gentleman with an angry face—she had seen his picture on the walls.  She had seen it on the floor too, with a rotten apple squashed over it, for the farm had changed its politics from time to time.  Martha had never been on one side or the other; none of “they” had ever done the farm a stroke of good.  Such was her sweeping verdict, given with all a peasant’s distrust of the outside world.

When the half-frightened curiosity had somewhat faded away, Emma Ladbruk was uncomfortably conscious of another feeling towards the old woman.  She was a quaint old tradition, lingering about the place, she was part and parcel of the farm itself, she was something at once pathetic and picturesque—but she was dreadfully in the way.  Emma had come to the farm full of plans for little reforms and improvements, in part the result of training in the newest ways and methods, in part the outcome of her own ideas and fancies.  Reforms in the kitchen region, if those deaf old ears could have been induced to give them even a hearing, would have met with short shrift and scornful rejection, and the kitchen region spread over the zone of dairy and market business and half the work of the household.  Emma, with the latest science of dead-poultry dressing at her finger-tips, sat by, an unheeded watcher, while old Martha trussed the chickens for the market-stall as she had trussed them for nearly fourscore years—all leg and no breast.  And the hundred hints anent effective cleaning and labour-lightening and the things that make for wholesomeness which the young woman was ready to impart or to put into action dropped away into nothingness before that wan, muttering, unheeding presence.  Above all, the coveted window corner, that was to be a dainty, cheerful oasis in the gaunt old kitchen, stood now choked and lumbered with a litter of odds and ends that Emma, for all her nominal authority, would not have dared or cared to displace; over them seemed to be spun the protection of something that was like a human cobweb.  Decidedly Martha was in the way.  It would have been an unworthy meanness to have wished to see the span of that brave old life shortened by a few paltry months, but as the days sped by Emma was conscious that the wish was there, disowned though it might be, lurking at the back of her mind.

She felt the meanness of the wish come over her with a qualm of self-reproach one day when she came into the kitchen and found an unaccustomed state of things in that usually busy quarter.  Old Martha was not working.  A basket of corn was on the floor by her side, and out in the yard the poultry were beginning to clamour a protest of overdue feeding-time.  But Martha sat huddled in a shrunken bunch on the window seat, looking out with her dim old eyes as though she saw something stranger than the autumn landscape.

“Is anything the matter, Martha?” asked the young woman.

“’Tis death, ’tis death a-coming,” answered the quavering voice; “I knew ’twere coming.  I knew it.  ’Tweren’t for nothing that old Shep’s been howling all morning.  An’ last night I heard the screech-owl give the death-cry, and there were something white as run across the yard yesterday; ’tweren’t a cat nor a stoat, ’twere something.  The fowls knew ’twere something; they all drew off to one side.  Ay, there’s been warnings.  I knew it were a-coming.”

The young woman’s eyes clouded with pity.  The old thing sitting there so white and shrunken had once been a merry, noisy child, playing about in lanes and hay-lofts and farmhouse garrets; that had been eighty odd years ago, and now she was just a frail old body cowering under the approaching chill of the death that was coming at last to take her.  It was not probable that much could be done for her, but Emma hastened away to get assistance and counsel.  Her husband, she knew, was down at a tree-felling some little distance off, but she might find some other intelligent soul who knew the old woman better than she did.  The farm, she soon found out, had that faculty common to farmyards of swallowing up and losing its human population.  The poultry followed her in interested fashion, and swine grunted interrogations at her from behind the bars of their styes, but barnyard and rickyard, orchard and stables and dairy, gave no reward to her search.  Then, as she retraced her steps towards the kitchen, she came suddenly on her cousin, young Mr. Jim, as every one called him, who divided his time between amateur horse-dealing, rabbit-shooting, and flirting with the farm maids.

“I’m afraid old Martha is dying,” said Emma.  Jim was not the sort of person to whom one had to break news gently.

“Nonsense,” he said; “Martha means to live to a hundred.  She told me so, and she’ll do it.”

“She may be actually dying at this moment, or it may just be the beginning of the break-up,” persisted Emma, with a feeling of contempt for the slowness and dulness of the young man.

A grin spread over his good-natured features.

“It don’t look like it,” he said, nodding towards the yard.  Emma turned to catch the meaning of his remark.  Old Martha stood in the middle of a mob of poultry scattering handfuls of grain around her.  The turkey-cock, with the bronzed sheen of his feathers and the purple-red of his wattles, the gamecock, with the glowing metallic lustre of his Eastern plumage, the hens, with their ochres and buffs and umbers and their scarlet combs, and the drakes, with their bottle-green heads, made a medley of rich colour, in the centre of which the old woman looked like a withered stalk standing amid a riotous growth of gaily-hued flowers.  But she threw the grain deftly amid the wilderness of beaks, and her quavering voice carried as far as the two people who were watching her.  She was still harping on the theme of death coming to the farm.

“I knew ’twere a-coming.  There’s been signs an’ warnings.”

“Who’s dead, then, old Mother?” called out the young man.

“’Tis young Mister Ladbruk,” she shrilled back; “they’ve just a-carried his body in.  Run out of the way of a tree that was coming down an’ ran hisself on to an iron post.  Dead when they picked un up.  Aye, I knew ’twere coming.”

And she turned to fling a handful of barley at a belated group of guinea-fowl that came racing toward her.

* * * * *

The farm was a family property, and passed to the rabbit-shooting cousin as the next-of-kin.  Emma Ladbruk drifted out of its history as a bee that had wandered in at an open window might flit its way out again.  On a cold grey morning she stood waiting, with her boxes already stowed in the farm cart, till the last of the market produce should be ready, for the train she was to catch was of less importance than the chickens and butter and eggs that were to be offered for sale.  From where she stood she could see an angle of the long latticed window that was to have been cosy with curtains and gay with bowls of flowers.  Into her mind came the thought that for months, perhaps for years, long after she had been utterly forgotten, a white, unheeding face would be seen peering out through those latticed panes, and a weak muttering voice would be heard quavering up and down those flagged passages.  She made her way to a narrow barred casement that opened into the farm larder.  Old Martha was standing at a table trussing a pair of chickens for the market stall as she had trussed them for nearly fourscore years.

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