The Madness Of Love | The Secret History

III

On Sunday I woke up early to a quiet house. I went downstairs to sit on a porch for a few minutes before the others woke up.
Outside it was cool and still, the sky that hazy shade of white peculiar to autumn mornings, and the wicker chairs were drenched with dew. Preparing for their journey south, the martins flapped and fretted in the eaves, and, from the blanket of mist hovering over the lake, I heard the harsh, lonely cry of the mallards.

"Good morning" a cool voice behind me said.
Startled, I turned around to see Henry sitting at the other end of the porch. With - and that surprised me the most - Lilith sitting beside him.
(Later I discovered that such an early morning was the only time when they weren't ignoring each other.)
He was without a jacket but otherwise immaculate for such an ungodly hour: trousers knife-pressed, his white shirt crisp with starch.

Lilith also looked too formal and well put for such an early hour. She was wearing a long dark brown skirt, a black corset top and was barefoot. I can't really remember many occasions in the country house, when she was wearing shoes.

On the table in front of them were books and papers, a steaming espresso pot and two tiny cups, and a couple of unfiltered cigarettes burning in an ashtray.
"Morning, Richie." said a calm, female voice - Lilith. Richie was the nickname she called me until Bunny's death. Then something changed, and I became 'Richard'.
"You're up early" I said. "I always rise early. The morning is the best time for me to work" replied Henry in the same cold, monotone voice. Lilith said nothing. I glanced at the books. "What are you doing, Greek?" Henry set the cup back into its saucer. "A translation of Paradise Lost." "Into what language?" "Latin." he said solemnly. "Hmm" I said. "Why?" "He doesn't have anything better to do." said Lilith while lighting a cigarette. Strangely, her tone wasn't mocking. She was just stating a fact.
Henry was beginning to say something, but then changed his mind and started writing again.
"And what are you doing?" I asked her. "Reading" she simply replied. "In english?" "Greek. Plato's 'Allegory of the cave'. Do you know it?" Of course I did know it. I was just saying so, when I heard Henry murmur: "Pretentious". She just scoffed at his statement, but somehow didn't seem angry at all.

"Will you have some coffee?" she asked. "No, thank you." "I hope you slept well." "Yes, thanks." "I sleep better out here than I usually do" said Henry, adjusting his glasses and bending over the lexicon. "We both do" added Lilith. There was a subtle evidence of fatigue and strain in both of them which I, a veteran of many sleepless nights, recognized immediately.
Suddenly I realised that this unprofitable task of his, and her obsessive reading were probably nothing more than just methods of whiling away the early morning hours, much as other insomniacs do crossword puzzles.

"Are you both always up this early? I asked them. "Almost always" he said without looking up. She nodded. "It's beautiful here" said Lilith. "But morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable." "I know what you mean" I said. And I did. About the only time of day I had been able to stand in Plano was the very early morning, almost dawn, when the streets were empty and the light was golden and kind on the dry grass, the chain-link fences, the solitary scrub-oaks.

Lilith put out her cigarette out and looked up at me. "You're not very happy where you come from, are you?" she asked. I was startled at this Holmes-like deduction. She smiled at me. "Don't worry, I'm not either. You hide it very cleverly." she said, looking back at her book. Then she looked up again. "The others really don't understand that sort of thing, you know." She said it without malice, without empathy, without even much in the way of interest. I was not even sure what she meant, but, for the first time, I had a glimmer of something I had not previously understood: why the others were all so fond of her. I took these pronouncements of Lilith's very seriously. I doubt if Sylvia Plath herself could have impressed me more.

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After breakfast I went in my room and was about to change, when I heard a knock on my door. It was Francis. "Give me your dirty clothes" he told me. "I'll give them to Mrs. Hatch and she'll clean them." I gave him my laundry. And right when he turned and was walking out the door I asked: "What's going on between Lilith and Henry?" Francis stopped and slowly turned around. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully. "Well, all this time since arriving they seemed to ignore each other, but this morning I found both of them sitting together on the porch."
Francis pretended to think, though I knew that he knows exactly what's going on. "You see," he started. "They have some history. They were together on the first year of Hampden college." "In a relationship?" I asked startled. Francis looked at me strangely. "Well obviously. But then something happened. I think..." he stopped. "What?" Francis sighed. "I think it was Camilla. Henry became weirdly in love with her. Lilith couldn't take it and they broke it off." He got silent. "Of course, I'm not sure that's what happened. You should ask her, not me."

After he left I sat on my bed and all I could think about was what Francis said. There wasn't any tension between Lilith and Camilla, at least I haven't noticed any. I don't know why I was so eager to find out what actually was going on, but in the end I decided to ask her myself.