She had seen a man whom she had hitherto liked, and whom she had unconsciously respected for a certain dignity he seemed to have, degrade himself—­and for money’s sake, as she rightly judged—­to the playing of a pitiful comedy.  As the whole scene came back to her in all distinctness, she traced the deception from first to last with amazing certainty of comprehension, and she knew that San Miniato had wilfully and intentionally laid a plot to work upon her feelings and to produce the result he had obtained—­a poor result enough, if he had known the whole truth, yet one of which Beatrice was sorely ashamed.  She had been deceived into the expression of something which she had never felt—­and which, this morning, seemed further from her than ever before.  It was bitter to think that any man could say she had uttered those three words “I love you,” when there was less truth in them than in the commonest, most pardonable social lie.  He had planned the excursion, knowing how beautiful things in nature affected her, knowing exactly at what point the moon would rise, precisely at what hour that mysterious light would gleam upon the water, knowing the magic of the place and counting upon it to supplement his acting where it lacked reality.  It had been clever of him to think it out so carefully, to plan each detail so thoughtfully, to behave so naturally until his opportunity was all prepared and ready for him.  But for one little mistake, one moment’s forgetfulness of tact, the impression might have remained and grown in distinctness until it would have secured the imprint of a strong reality at the beginning of a new volume in her life, to which she could always look back in the hereafter as to something true and sweet to be thought of.  But his tact had failed him at the critical and supreme moment when he had got what he wanted and had not known how to keep it, even for an hour.  And his mistake had been followed by a strange accident which had revealed to Beatrice the very core of a poor human heart that was beating itself to death, in true earnest, for her sake.

She had seen what many a woman longs for but may never look upon.  She had seen a man, brave, strong, simple and true, with the death mark of his love for her upon his face.  What matter if he were but an unlettered sailor, scarcely knowing what moved him nor the words he spoke?  Beatrice was a woman and, womanlike, she knew without proof or testimony that his heart and hands were clean of the few sins which woman really despises in man.

They are not many—­be it said in honour of womanly generosity and kindness—­they are not many, those bad deeds which a woman cannot forgive, and that she is right is truly shown in that those are the sins which the most manly men despise in others.  They are, I think, cowardice, lying for selfish ends, betraying tales of woman’s weakness—­almost the greatest of crimes—­and, greatest of all, faithlessness in love.

Let a man be brave, honest, discreet, faithful, and a woman will forgive him all manner of evil actions, even to murder and bloodshed; but let him flinch in danger, lie to save himself, tell the name of a woman whose love for him has betrayed her, or break his faith to her without boldly saying that he loves her no more, and she will not forgive him while he lives, though she may give him a kindly thought and a few tears when he is gone for ever.