Mr.
Trevlyn left her in anger, to go to Philadelphia on business. He was
expected to be absent about four days. Meanwhile, his wife suffered
agonies of remorse, and counted the hours until his return should give
her the privilege of throwing herself at his feet and begging his
forgiveness.
But he did not return. A week, ten days passed, and still no tidings.
Alexandrine was almost frantic. On the eleventh day came a telegraph
despatch, brief and cruel, as those heartless things invariably are,
informing her that Mr. Trevlyn had closed his business in Philadelphia,
and was on the eve of leaving the country for an indefinite period.
His destination was not mentioned, and his unhappy wife, feeling that
if he left Philadelphia without her seeing him, all trace of him would
be lost, hurried to the depot and set out for that city.
There had been an accident about half way between New York and
Philadelphia, and Alexandrine Trevlyn had been brought back to her
splendid home--a corpse! That was all.
Archer Trevlyn had left behind him no clue by which he might be reached
or communicated with, and his wife, unforgiven, must be consigned to the
tomb, without a single tear upon her face from the eyes of him she had
loved so fondly.
They buried her at Greenwood, and the grass and flowers bloomed over her
grave.
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