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For the first time in her life, Melony was afraid. After all her efforts and her hard traveling, she felt she had been returned to the girls' division without being aware of it; but it wasn't only that. It was the first time anyone had expected something of her; she knew what Jane Eyre meant to her, but what could it mean to them? She'd read it to children too young to understand half the words, too young to pay attention until the end of a sentence, but they were orphans--prisoners of the routine of being read to aloud; it was the routine that mattered.
Melony was more than halfway in her third or fourth journey through Jane Eyre. She said, "I'm on page two hundred and eight. There's a lot that's happened before."
"Just read it," Sammy said.
"Maybe I should start at the beginning," Melony suggested.
"Just read what you readin' to yourself," Rather said gently.
Her voice had never trembled before, but Melony began.
" 'The wind roared high in the great tree which embowered the gates,' " she read.
"What's 'embowered'?" Wednesday asked her.
"Like a bower," Melony said. "Like a thing hanging over you, like for grapes or roses."
"It's a kind of bower where the shower is," Sandra said.
"Oh," someone said.
" 'But the road as far as I could see,' " Melony continued, " 'to the right hand and left, was all still and solitary . . .' "
"What's that?" Sammy asked.
"Solitary is alone," Melony said.
"Like solitaire, you know solitaire," Rather said, and there was an approving murmur.
"Shut up your interruptin'," Sandra said.
"Well, we got to understand," Wednesday said.
"Just shut up," Ma said.
"Read," Rather said to Melony, and she tried to go on.
" '. . . the road . . . all still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals, as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck,' " Melony read.
"Un-what?" someone asked.
"Unvaried means unchanged, not changed," Melony said.
"I know that," Wednesday said. "I got that one."
"Shut up," Sandra said.
" 'A puerile tear,' " Melony began, but she stopped. "I don't know what 'puerile' means," she said. "It's not important that you know what every word means."
"Okay," someone said.
" 'A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked--a tear of disappointment and impatience: ashamed of it, I wiped it away . . .' "
"There, we know what it is, anyway," Wednesday said.
" '. . . I lingered,' " Melony read.
"You what?" Sammy asked.
