Subj: Soliloquy
Date: 3/15/99 12:52:07 PM Central Standard Time
From: Doreen Gregoire

SOLILOQUY

Darkness had fallen long ago, a thick, soft blanket of black, speckled with glittering diamond stars. The pearlescent moon was on its downhill slide to the horizon, leaving a silvery trail in the calm, onyx sea that lapped gently at the base of the cliff. The wind that had howled all night had stilled to a gentle breeze that softly brushed against the branches of the ancient pine trees, urging them to sigh their own gentle melodies.

Barnabas Collins stood at the edge of the cliff, silently staring out at the endless sea before him. The breeze that whispered in the trees also stirred about him, gently blowing his hair across his forehead, and billowing his cape out behind him. At first it may have seemed like a trick of the fickle moonlight, it happened so gradually -- his form became almost imperceptibly evanescent, fading by immeasurable degrees until at last he vanished altogether, leaving no trace of his presence.

He materialized again in the drawing room of the Old House. Glancing over toward the fireplace, he noticed Julia asleep in one of the wing chairs, her coppery head leaning against the chair back, an opened book face-down in her lap. A burned-out candle was on a table beside her, along with an empty teacup. He moved closer to see what the title of the book was and smiled fondly. It was an obscure Victorian treatise on blood diseases and vampirism.

He carefully removed the book from her limp fingers and, marking her place, set it on the table, then simply watched her, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"I have met many women in my time," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "In my youth I never lacked for female companionship, whether they be delicate and French, or hot-blooded Caribbean. I traveled to England, Spain, even Japan and China. In all those places, among all the women I met, I never ran across someone the likes of you."

He went over to the fireplace, placed a log on the glowing embers and stoked the fire back to life, being careful not to awaken her. When he was done he seated himself in the chair that was the mate to the one she slumbered in.

"When I first met you, I was terrified," he told her sleeping form. "You were beyond my frame of reference -- an enigma to someone who was struggling to maintain a false identity and come to terms with a time so vastly different from my own. You were so strong, so professional. A *woman* doctor. You knew what I was, and you didn't fear me, even when you should have."

He swallowed and glanced down at his hands in his lap, then again fixed his gaze on her. "How many times did I try to kill you, or torture you with my mind? How many times did you kill for me, to protect me? How many times have I used your feelings for me for my own uses?

"How could I begin to ask your forgiveness? And yet, I know you *do* forgive me, unequivocally. Oh, I know how you feel. How could I not? I've seen the love shining in those incredible emerald eyes of yours. I could get lost in those eyes. Your love speaks through them, as do your courage and determination. I've never met a woman with such unselfish courage. You would die for me, I know that. How many times have you faced unimaginable terrors, to save me with hardly a thought for yourself?"

He wanted to get up, to brush away the strands of chestnut hair that had fallen over her eyes. But he stayed himself, knowing that at the faintest touch, she would awaken.

"I'm only beginning to understand the depths of you -- your brilliant intelligence, your loyalty, your love." He paused, deep in thought, then continued, his voice a whisper in the dimly lit room. "If only I had met you two hundred years ago. I would have married you and carried you off in an instant. How was I to know you hadn't even been born yet?" His chuckle was a dry rustle in the stillness.

"I've come to realize just how much you mean to me. How very much I care for you. But, loving you, I can't permit myself to admit it -- to show any love for you at all. My world would crumble if something should happen to you. I have already lost so many people I love to this curse. I couldn't bear to lose the one woman I love above all others.

"And so I must push you away, pretending I don't see the hurt in your eyes when my hunger causes me to seek the company of others, to pretend to a love I don't feel in order to get the one thing I desire from them. And all the while, my heart breaks just a little more, seeing the love and loneliness in your eyes.

"I love you, Julia," he whispered to her. "If I can't tell you when you are awake, I can tell you while you sleep. If you are unaware of my love for you, the curse can't claim you, and you remain safely at my side. And yet, seeing the hurt, I wonder if I can continue to wound you in this way. I long to tell you how I feel, to tell the whole world how I feel. Yet I must remain silent, hurting you to save you."

He got up and stood by her chair, gazing down at her with an expression of naked longing and unutterable love. She seemed to sense his presence, and stirred in her sleep. He crouched down so his mouth was close to her ear.

"No, my dearest love. You shan't awaken, nor shall you remember any of this. You shall dream, but not of me." He leaned closer and brushed her cheek with his cool lips in the barest touch of a kiss. "And when you wake, my dearest, you will feel strengthened, renewed. I *should* tell you to stop loving me, for your own good. Yet I can't. I won't take that from you." He straightened and lifted his hand as if to caress her, but let the gesture die. "Sleep, my love."

Dawn was not far off, and he turned regretfully from her and made his way slowly to the cellar. The door closed with a heavy, metallic clang. And in the drawing room above, Julia stirred in her sleep and smiled.


* * * * *

I am indebted to two people for this vignette. Firstly, to May Sutherland, for writing the story that inspired me, and secondly to Philip Dunne, who wrote the 1947 screenplay for "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir", and especially the wonderful speech Captain Gregg spoke to Lucy Muir, from which I "borrowed" a couple of lines (and the idea).