Meeting no one in the dreary ill-lit streets, he reached St. Ann's, Soho, where the Countess was buried; and then, for the first time, remembered that the church was locked and that he had no means of entry. Vexed at being thwarted, he crossed the churchyard and tried, despite his own reason, the heavy door. The cold iron ring of the handle rattled uselessly in his hand; some leaves fluttered from Selina's roses on to the steps.
My lord turned and looked about him. The moonlight spread softly over the tombstones, the dark houses beyond the railings and the plain lines of the church. A low wind swept through the thick grass and bore long wreaths of clouds over the sharp outline of the roofs. It was utterly silent; there seemed no one abroad. My lord pictured the dark lonely interior of the church and the draped urn in a niche in the nave. He had only looked at it once, but very clearly he could see the lettering, even the way it was placed, on the marble tablet below:
NEAR THIS SPOT
LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS
OF
LAVINIA,
WIFE OF THE FOURTEENTH EARL OF LYNDWOOD,
Who died July 16, 1750, aged 23 years.
It was an inscription sinister in its brevity; the scandal, hushed as it was, attending my lady's death had allowed of no details, and my lord's humour permitted no eulogy, but it seemed to him now that he might have added some word of charity, for the sight of the churchyard and the thought of the cold church made him shudder with a feeling that was like pity for the unloved dead.