Lucy Maud Montgomery - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - Complete Collection - ALL 14 Books in One Volume (Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Rainbow Valley, The Story Girl, Chronicles of Avonlea and more)

Lucy Maud Montgomery

e-artnow, 2016

Contact: info@e-artnow.org

ISBN 978-80-268-6501-8

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES

ANNE OF AVONLEA

ANNE OF THE ISLAND

ANNE OF WINDY POPLARS

ANNE’S HOUSE OF DREAMS

ANNE OF INGLESIDE

RAINBOW VALLEY

RILLA OF INGLESIDE

THE STORY GIRL

THE GOLDEN ROAD

KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

THE WATCHMAN AND OTHER POEMS

Autobiography & Letters

THE ALPINE PATH: THE STORY OF MY CAREER

COLLECTED LETTERS

Table of Contents

I. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised

II. Matthew Cuthbert Is Surprised

III. Marilla Cuthbert Is Surprised

IV. Morning at Green Gables

V. Anne’s History

VI. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind

VII. Anne Says Her Prayers

VIII. Anne’s Bringing-Up Is Begun

IX. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified

X. Anne’s Apology

XI. Anne’s Impressions of Sunday-School

XII. A Solemn Vow and Promise

XIII. The Delights of Anticipation

XIV. Anne’s Confession

XV. A Tempest in the School Teapot

XVI. Diana Is Invited to Tea With Tragic Results

XVII. A New Interest in Life

XVIII. Anne to the Rescue

XIX. A Concert a Catastrophe and a Confession

XX. A Good Imagination Gone Wrong

XXI. A New Departure in Flavorings

XXII. Anne Is Invited Out to Tea

XXIII. Anne Comes to Grief in an Affair of Honor

XXIV. Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert

XXV. Matthew Insists on Puffed Sleeves

XXVI. The Story Club Is Formed

XXVII. Vanity and Vexation of Spirit

XXVIII. An Unfortunate Lily Maid

XXIX. An Epoch in Anne’s Life

XXX. The Queens Class Is Organized

XXXI. Where the Brook and River Meet

XXXII. The Pass List Is Out

XXXIII. The Hotel Concert

XXXIV. A Queen’s Girl

XXXV. The Winter at Queen’s

XXXVI. The Glory and the Dream

XXXVII. The Reaper Whose Name Is Death

XXXVIII. The Bend in the Road

Table of Contents

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with 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 reputed 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 past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that 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.

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 hill 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 Lynde — 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 asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life.

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at halfpast three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly 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 that 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 that didn’t happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon’s enjoyment was spoiled.

“I’ll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he’s gone and why,” the worthy woman finally concluded. “He doesn’t generally go to town this time of year and he NEVER visits; if he’d run out of turnip seed he wouldn’t dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn’t driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I’m clean puzzled, that’s what, and I won’t know a minute’s peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.”

Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde’s Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert’s father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place LIVING at all.

“It’s just STAYING, that’s what,” she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. “It’s no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren’t much company, though dear knows if they were there’d be enough of them. I’d ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they’re used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.”