Lights, like warning eyes, flashed at night, and through the
drenching fog, bells on reefs talked to invisible ships. Old men who
told tales of storm and strange, savage islands, of great catches of
fish, of smuggling, visited my aunt.
Then, as if this were merely the background of a drama, Deolda Costa
came to live with us in a prosaic enough fashion, as a "girl to help
out."
If you ask me how my aunt, a decent, law-abiding woman--a sick woman at
that--took a firebrand like Deolda into her home, all I would be able to
answer is: If you had seen her stand there, as I did, on the porch that
morning, you wouldn't ask the question. The doorbell rang and my aunt
opened it, I tagging behind. There was a girl there who looked as though
she were daring all mankind, a strange girl with skin tawny, like sand
on a hot day, and dark, brooding eyes. My aunt said:
"You want to see me?"
The girl glanced up slowly under her dark brows that looked as if they
had been drawn with a pencil.
"I've come to work for you," she said in a shy, friendly fashion. "I'm a
real strong girl."
No one could have turned her away, not unless he were deaf and blind,
not unless he were ready to murder happiness. I was fifteen and
romantic, and I was bedazzled just as the others were.
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