"I thought of making a family tree. I started it ... in embroidery. But my eyes weren't good enough. It was a strain; and then I came to a full stop. I couldn't go back beyond my father—so it would have been a very short family tree. I expect you have one with branches all over the place."
"I've never thought of it. There might be one somewhere in the house. I'll find out when I get back."
"Very interesting ... I always find that sort of thing. I wish I knew of my father's father. His mother married twice ... the second time after he was born, so we don't know much about what happened before that. I'll show you my bit of embroidery. That's if you would like to see it."
"I should very much like to see it."
"See that box over there ... on the shelf. It's in there with all the coloured silks. I wrote the names in pencil and then embroidered them in whatever colour I thought best. I started at the bottom. I had to make it a tree ... Start at the roots, you see."
"What a good idea."
"Yes, but there's so little. It only spans a hundred years or so."
"Nevertheless I am longing to see it."
I put the box on the table and reverently she took out a large piece of linen. "There you see: Frederick Gilmour. That's my father. Now I don't know who his father is... except that he must have been a Mr. Gilmour. His mother was Lois. She was Mrs. Gilmour first. Then she married a George Mallory."
I felt a little faint. I cried out: "What... Freddy Gilmour—"
"Frederick Gilmour, dear. He was my father. It was his father I don't know much about. If only I could find out ... I might go farther back."
"Lois Gilmour," I repeated. "And she married a second time ... a George Mallory..."
Words from the journal seemed to swim before my eyes. It was almost as though I were reading it again. It must be. The names explained it. It could not be pure coincidence that Raymond's greatgrandfather was the Freddy of the diary. I made rapid calculations. How old had he been when he came to the Manor. Ann Alice wrote that he was eight. The grandmother must have been born about 1810, which would make her eighty now. Freddy would have been about twenty-five then. It fitted.
"What's the matter, my dear. You've gone suddenly silent as though you've had a shock."
I said: "I've just made a discovery. One of my ancestors married a Lois Gilmour. He was George Mallory."
"You mean you're one of the Mallorys?"
"Yes. Didn't you know?"
"Why, bless you, I don't think I ever heard your surname. They've always referred to you as Annalice."
"I'm Annalice Mallory. Our families must be connected in a way. What—er—happened to this Lois Gilmour...or Mallory as she became?"
"We don't know. It's a full stop. My father Frederick was a successful producer of maps and prints. He did well. He acquired this house. I was born here. Then when I married Joseph Billington he came to live here and I inherited the house and the business and everything when my father died. It was Billingtons from then onwards."
"It is so extraordinary," I said. "I feel quite shocked."
"Well, I suppose if we could go back far enough we would find we were all connected with each other. Think what the population was in the old days and what it is now. We must all have relations we have never even heard of. You'd heard of my father then, in your family?"
"Y-yes. I knew that there had been this marriage and Frederick
Gilmour lived in our Manor House for some time. I don't know what happened later, where he went or whether his mother stayed there. I know nothing... except that he was there."
"Well, it seems there was a family connection between them. Look. You see I have worked him in. There is Lois... but I don't know anything about Lois' first husband, my father's father. I didn't put the second marriage in because I didn't think it had any relevance. There I am branching out from Frederick and Ann Grey, my mother. Then I married Thomas Billington and that is the real start."
I looked at the fine stitches and all the time words from the journal seemed to echo in my ears and dance before my eyes. "You brought our little bastard in ... That was a neat little job."
I could tell old Mrs. Billington who her grandfather was; but she was so absorbed in her family tree, telling me stories of this one and that, that she did not notice my inattention.
When I left her I went to my room.
I thought: There is a connection between our families then. Raymond's great-great-grandmother was the wife of a Mallory.
I did not want to speak of it. How could I without explaining that I had found Ann Alice's diary. I could not tell Raymond about that. I could not say to him: Your great-great-grandfather was a criminal, a murderer, and so was your great-great-grandmother. How could I? Such things are best forgotten. If we start probing into the lives of our ancestors who knows what we should uncover. Oh indeed yes. Some things are best kept secret.
I did not mention the matter to anyone.
We were to leave the day after tomorrow. Mrs. Billington said that we should just have a family party for the last night. She felt we should all prefer it that way. I knew they were all waiting for an announcement. There was an expectancy throughout the house.
Raymond and I went off for one of our rides. He was a little more silent than usual.
We stopped at an inn for the usual glass of cider and while we were drinking it in the inn parlour he asked me to marry him.
I looked at his kindly face across the table and it seemed to me that there was a shadow behind him. I had visualized Desmond Featherstone so vividly from Ann Alice's journal that I had a clear picture of him in my mind; and as I sat there it seemed to me that I saw the evil face of Desmond Featherstone hovering over Raymond.
I felt a revulsion. I had lived with Ann Alice through that night when I had read her journal. I had felt I was there with her. Even now, when it grew dark, I imagined the presence of Desmond Featherstone
in our house—and the more shadowy one of Lois. And the blood of these two was in Raymond; he had developed from their seed.
It was foolish, of course. Are we responsible for our ancestors? How far can any of us look back? But I could not help it. It was there.
Perhaps if I had been truly in love with him I should not have felt this. I should have laughed at it and asked myself what the past had to do with the present. Why should one person be responsible for the faults of another? To visit the sins of the fathers on the children had always seemed to me a most unfair doctrine.
And yet... because of that I could not promise to marry him ... not yet anyway. Perhaps later my common sense would prevail.
Now I hesitated.
"What is it?" he asked gently.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "Marriage is such a big undertaking. It's for life. I feel that we have known each other such a short time."
"Don't you think we know all we need to know? We're happy together, aren't we? Our families like each other."
"That is true," I answered. "But there is more to it than that."
"You mean you don't love me."
"I am very fond of you. I enjoy being with you. I have found everything here so—comforting and stimulating, but I am still not sure."
"I've rushed you into this."
"Perhaps."
"You want more time to think."
"Yes, I believe that is what I want."
He smiled gently. "I understand. We shall meet often. I shall come to you and you will come here. It is just that you feel you need more time."
It was more than that. If he had asked me a few days before I believe I should have said Yes. It was that revelation in the grandmother's room which had shaken me. I wanted to explain to him. But I could not tell him Ann Alice's story—and even if I did, it would not seem logical to allow the past to impinge on the present to such an extent.
I could not understand myself. I believe that when I was reading that journal I identified myself with Ann Alice; and I could not get out of my mind that this young man—pleasant as he seemed—was the result of a union between two murderers.