"He did a devilish thing then. He wrote a letter home, saying that I had run away with you, and that we were together on board the 'Merry Andrew.'"
She falls on her knees before him, and raises her bands supplicatingly, and begs him again to forgive her, and to believe that she knew nothing of this, and that if she had known--
"If you had known, Minnie," he says, gently raising her, "you would not have done what you have. But you did not stop to consider, poor child! You see the consequences of that letter, do you not? Suspecting me, your father told me the story of his life, to warn me not to betray you. Suspecting me, Susan implored me to be true to Ellen. Dan confided to me his love for you, and I listened to and sympathized with him. Well, what must he and all of them think, when they have learned that you and I are together on board the 'Merry Andrew'? And I have something to tell you more painful than all the rest."
He puts Ellen's portrait into her hand. "Do you know who this is?"
Her eyes are blurred by tears, and she sees Ellen's sweet face through the sorrowful mist.
"It is Ellen's," she says.
"It is my wife!"
As Joshua utters these words, earth and heaven fade in Minnie's sight; nothing is visible, nothing is palpable to her senses, but the knowledge that flashes upon her, that her love, instead of being her glory, is now her shame. "There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not sanctify," her father had said. Could love sanctify such a sacrifice as she had made--a sacrifice that had brought disgrace and dishonor upon the man she loved? For the first time some slight consciousness of her error breaks upon her, and she looks upon herself as a shameful thing. As Joshua, witnessing her agony, moves a step nearer to her, she cries, "No, no, do not touch me!" and with a wild shudder sinks upon the ground. He, animated by sincerest compassion, throws himself by her side, lays his hand upon her head, and raises her face to his. She bows her head upon his shoulder, and sobs her grief out there. By every means in his power--by gentle speech, by tender act--he strives to soothe her, and succeeds. And then, true to his purpose, he finishes his story--tells her what occurred between him and the Old Sailor at Gravesend; how surprised he was to find that the good old man, and even his own mother, had seen Minnie's fancy for him, and had devised the cure for it; and how, prompted by duty and by his love for Ellen (he dwelt much on that), he had married her quietly at Gravesend, and had spent there the three happiest days of his life. And when his story is finished, and she has learned all, they sit hand in hand, very quiet and sore-smitten, until Minnie, in a singularly-subdued voice, asks what she shall do: as if, having committed this fault, and brought such terrible suspicion upon him, he has only to tell her how to atone for it, and she will straightway do it. Sadly he replies, "What can you do, Minnie? Nothing--nothing but wait. There is, to my mind, not the barest chance of escape. We shall make our graves in this wild forest; but we must live so--you and I, my dear--that upon my deathbed I shall be able to think that I have been true to my wife, true to my friend. Life is not the end of all things."
Meekly she assents. He calls her "Sister," and kisses her; and then they rejoin their companions, who are seated by the gunyahs, cooking turtles' eggs found by Rough-and-Ready, the discoverer.