Anne of Green Gables

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place it was reput to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run fast Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

Anne of Green Gables

 

  

There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. 

She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she "ran" the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts-she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices-and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of st.

Lawrence, with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye.

 

She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lyned-a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"-was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables.

 

Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J.

 

Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had ask him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anyrhing in his whole life.

 

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, pladidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened htat he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?

 Had it been any other man in Avonlea Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something thqt didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her aftermoon's enjoyment was spoiled.