For a few moments, they both sat, looking intently at the envelope held by its corners between her fingertips.
"It was a beautiful letter," Sister Julienne remarked gently, bowing her head a little, trying to catch a closer look at Bernadette's face, which was still fixed on what she had on her hand, partly concentrating on it and partly avoiding Sister Julienne's eyes, "Don't you think so?" she asked, with a slight sense of caution.
"Yes," Bernadette agreed so softly that she could barely be heard, "Yes, it was."
Sister Julienne was quiet for a moment, apparently weighing up her best way forward.
"I won't ask you exactly what has transpired between yourself and Dr. Turner," she declared firmly, "Though that does not mean you cannot tell me if you should want to. I seem to remember the mention of a kiss on the hand, and personally I see no great crime in that. What I believe is important is how you feel now."
"Now?" Bernadette repeated, softly, seeking clarification not so much of the time, but of how, exactly, Sister Julienne meant her to interpret the world "feel".
Thankfully, though, it seemed that Sister Julienne knew exactly what she was asking anyway.
"Now that you seem, mercifully, to have left the worst of your illness behind you," she explained, "And now that you have read this letter from Dr. Turner. Only if you feel able to, I would consider it a great privilege and a great consolation, to me, if you would tell me what your thoughts are."
"I feel lucky to still be alive," Bernadette told her, "And I thank God for it."
"Of course, child," Sister Julienne nodded her understanding, "That is most natural. I thank God for it too. But," she asked, testing the ground, treading, she knew, on very dangerous territory, "What of your letter?"
There was a lengthy pause.
"Dr. Turner never meant me to read this, did he?" she asked, "Not if I lived?"
"No, I don't believe he did," Sister Julienne replied.
"Then I am sorry that he must be disappointed," she reflected, "But nevertheless I feel lucky. If anything," she added after a moment, "I would say that I felt more lucky, now. With his letter. Is that wrong of me, Sister?"
"No," Sister Julienne replied, "I cannot say that I think it is. After what you have been through I am not surprised that you feel heartened by the thought of human love. And you have God's love always, child."
"I know," Bernadette replied quietly, the slight crease of a frown forming on her brow, "I know."
"Then why do you look so troubled?" Sister Julienne asked her softly.
Bernadette's eyes closed, gently falling shut at first and then closing a little more tightly.
"Because I want him so much," she confessed in a whisper, her eyes still shut, "And I know that that is wrong, Sister."
Once she opened them, she could tell from the sight of her face that Sister Julienne was at least a little shocked by that admission, though she endeavoured not to show it. The silence she took before speaking was longer than usual; it took her longer to find an answer.
"It may not be wrong," she reflected at length, "Not necessarily," then, very tentatively and unusually shyly for Sister Julienne, "How do you want him, Sister?"
"I can't tell you," Bernadette replied, "I hardly know myself," she admitted helplessly, "I haven't the words."
Sister Julienne waited a moment.
"Try, Sister," she told her earnestly, "Please. Is it anything like what he wrote in his letter to you?"
Bernadette looked haltingly back down at the note in her hands, and nodded slowly.
"Yes," she replied, "I think it must be like that. I only know that I want him, Sister. Whenever I've felt frightened here, or lonely, it's him I've wanted to be here, him I've asked God to send to me, though I know it's impossible. When he diagnosed me, when he took me to the hospital, and to here, I was sitting next to him, but it felt like I could have been a thousand times nearer to him. I wanted to be. And, when I was lying under a huge x-ray machine, that was when I first felt very frightened, I realised what having this disease would mean and what it could do; I wanted him with me, to hold me. Even before I was ill... there were times... Sister, when he kissed my hand, I truly believe it was an innocent gesture on his part, but the way I felt-," she was not quite sure what to say for a few moments, "It frightened me," was all she could say, "What I felt then. It frightened me."
"Why should that make it wrong, though?" Sister Julienne asked her after a short pause, "Just because the feeling frightened you?"
When Bernadette did not reply, she pressed on softly.
"Sister, you have given me the great privilege of trusting me with what you have just told me," she told her kindly, "Will you allow me the further liberty of telling you what I think?"
"Of course, Sister," Bernadette replied.
"I think that you love Dr. Turner," Sister Julienne told her simply, "And that in itself cannot be wrong. It is what you do about it that you need to concern yourself with."
"But I have vowed to love God," Bernadette told her.
"Loving a man too does not mean that you love God less," Sister Julienne pointed out, "Indeed, I believe that if you do, and if it makes you happy it may lead you to love God more. But," she began, her own forehead furrowing now in a frown, "I believe that it does not make you happy at the moment, does it?"
Bernadette shook her head haltingly, looking down at her bedspread.
"And that is the greatest shame in all of this," Sister Julienne reflected, "That you should love and be unhappy in that love. That is wasteful, in the worst way, to the most crucial degree, and waste is not God's intention for us."
Again, Bernadette was quiet.
"You know what Dr. Turner's feelings are for you," Sister Julienne reminded her, inclining her head gently at the letter, "You have been told in the best sort of way, when he told you honestly, without needing to regard the consequences."
"Sister," Bernadette murmured at last, "What should I do?"
"That is one thing I cannot tell you," Sister Julienne told her regretfully, "One of the many things. You must choose for yourself. I can offer you guidance, but I cannot make your choice."
Sister Bernadette lapsed once again into a troubled, thoughtful silence.
"I would that I could," Sister Julienne continued, "I would that I had the power of God for you to go to Dr. Turner, to help him to be happy, but also never to leave us, to stay exactly as you have always been, wonderful person that you are. That he could be able to let you know he loves you, but that you could also stay at Nonnatus House, where you are also loved, where you remind me so very much of the young nun I once was, and make me think of the daughter I might have known, in a different life."
Bernadette was quite taken aback, staring at Sister Julienne quite openly now, her mouth parted a little in surprise. If she was not very much mistaken, something inside her chest had swollen, with the emotion she felt at hearing these words addresses to her, with her heart going out to Sister Julienne. The older nun gave her sad half-smile, sniffing a little and briefly brushing the edge of her nose with the tip of her finger.
"You see," she told her sadly, "I fear my advice would be of no use to you anyway, even if I could give it."
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