“You forbid me to say so, Joan,” I ran on, “because you do not trust me.”
“Do not trust you, Dr. Fabos?”
“Not sufficiently to say that I am about to save you from all dangers—even the danger of past years.”
“You cannot do that—oh, you cannot do it, Dr. Fabos.”
I covered her hand with my own, and tried to compel her to look me in the face.
“When a woman learns to love and is loved she has no past,” I said. “All that should concern her is the happiness of the man to whom she has given her life. In your own case, I believe that we shall read the story of bygone years together and find it a sweet story. I do not know, Joan; I am only guessing; but I think it will be a story of a woman’s love and a father’s suffering, and of an innocent man upon whom the gates of prison were long closed. Say that the child of these two, entitled to a fortune in her own right, became the prey of a villain, and we shall be far upon our way. That’s the thought of your prophet. He would give much, Joan, if the facts were as he believes them to be.”
Be sure she turned her head at this and looked me full in the face. I have never seen so many emotions expressed upon a childish face—joy, doubt, love, fear. Quick as all her race to read an enigma, she understood me almost as soon as I had spoken. A light of wondrous thankfulness shone in her eyes. There were long minutes together when we sat there in silence, and the only sound was that of her heart beating.
“Oh,” she cried, “if it were true, Dr. Fabos, if it were true!”
“I will prove it true before we have been in England a month.”
She laughed a little sadly.