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"The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately in his and hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his old corner." (Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby: end of chapter 12)
Chapter 12.5
In Which Nicholas Endures Another Cold Night at Dotheboys Hall, and Seals a Friendship
Nicholas stood to greet Squeers, stepping away from the bench where he had been comforting Smike. His hands tingled slightly, and he clasped them together, assuring himself the sensation was meerly from the cold of the boy’s hands. He waited attendance upon Squeers, nodding wordlessly at the ignorant, vile things that issued forth from his mouth. Finally, after having checked his and Nicholas's teachers' desks meticulously to make sure neither any of the boys nor Nicholas had made off with the room's meager supplies, Squeers left.
It was late, and the room dark but for the glow of the small fire still burning in the stove; Squeers had taken the only candle. The bell for bed had rung, but he was reluctant to go up just yet. Outside, a hard sleet fell, icing the ground and beating against the windows of the school room. Nicholas knew that in the dormitory little bits of ice would be falling on those boys unlucky enough to have a bed set under one of the half-intact windows. He turned and looked instinctively into the corner where Smike had sequestered himself, expecting fully that the boy would have crept off when Squeers's back was turned.
But Smike was still there, sitting silently on the bench, his head bowed. Nicholas went to him; the book he had been struggling over earlier was still open on his lap, but he was not looking at it; his eyes were cast up, watching Nicholas as he approached. They dropped to the book, though, when Nicholas got close.
"Here," said Nicholas, easing the book from Smike's lap, "it's too dark to be working on your studies, now."
Smike looked up at him, but said nothing. His face was blank in that way Nicholas hated to see. Nicholas sat down beside him and touched his shoulder. "You're cold," he said, concerned as always for the boy.
Smike shook his head, denying his discomfort.
"Come near the fire with me," said Nicholas. "I'd like to warm myself before retiring." Moreover, he was afraid Smike would suffer in the night if he stayed so cold.
Smike still said nothing, so Nicholas took him by his rough, cold hand and led him to a bench near the fire. He set down the book and took Smike's hands in his own, trying to get him to pay attention, to leave behind his dazed, stupefied look. "You're a good boy, Smike," he said. Nicholas could not seem to call him a man, though they were nearly the same age. "You are my only friend here. And for that I thank you." He looked away, into the dark room; when he glanced back, Smike was crying again.
"What is it?" asked Nicholas.
Smike shook his head, reluctant to speak.
"My friend, what is troubling you so?" asked Nicholas, his concern deepening.
"No one," sobbed Smike, "has ever been kind to me."
"Oh," said Nicholas sadly, wrapping his arms around Smike, "you have deserved such a better life, my friend." Smike sobbed into Nicholas's breast, and Nicholas held him there, feeling his meager, cold body shaking against his own. He shushed the boy like a mother shushing a despairing child, and stroked his dirty hair, and felt himself shed a few tears of his own for the poor boy wrapped in his arms, this poor young man who, at that moment, was Nicholas's only friend in the world.
Gradually Smike's sobs slowed, then subsided altogether, and his shaking ceased. After a few minutes Nicholas looked down at his friend, pushing aside his matted hair to see his face, and smiled sadly to see that Smike had cried himself to sleep on Nicholas's breast. His face was newly calm and his breathing soft; he looked so innocent, so untouched, and yet so careworn that it made Nicholas sigh to look upon him. Nicholas bent and kissed the sleeping boy’s forehead; Smike smiled in his sleep, and it was an exceptional thing for Nicholas to see, for Smike never smiled.
As he sat there with Smike sleeping in his arms, Nicholas felt a stirring deep inside of himself that he had long tried to ignore. He looked away from his friend, out into the darkness of the room, and tried to coax himself back from the brink of what he was afraid might be construed as madness, though he did not feel mad. All the while he was stroking his friend's back comfortingly, afraid of rousing him if he stopped. Through Smike's meager jacket Nicholas could feel all of the bones of his back, as though there was no flesh covering them: Smike was awfully thin, and he still felt cold, despite his proximity to the fire and the heat of Nicholas's body. Nicholas, looking at the dying fire then back at Smike, shifted himself on the bench; Smike half awoke, and started on the bench, surprised to find himself still wrapped in Nicholas's embrace.
"Let’s to bed, hm?" said Nicholas softly. Smike nodded. Nicholas released him and stood before again taking his friend's hand to lead him out of the room.
Smike seemed still half asleep when they entered the dormitory. Nicholas led him through the maze of beds more by instinct than by sight; the room was all but pitch black. All around them, hardly visible in the darkness, boys slept, a great many to each bed. They tossed and turned, dreaming awful dreams, or else lay so still they seemed like little corpses, lain in state together.
Nicholas went with Smike to his own bed, which was pushed near the far wall, to give a better vantage point for Nicholas to observe all his charges. It was the smallest bed in the room, but it had been emptied of all its other occupants so that he, the teacher, might have that slight luxury of his own sleeping place. Nicholas sat down upon the bed, releasing Smike's hand as he moved to take off his shoes. Smike stood by, an unsure look crossing his face. Nicholas smiled up at him. "Sit down, if you wish," he said, his voice low to avoid disturbing the boys sleeping around them.
Smike sat, pushing himself into the bottom corner of the bed with that instinct for hiding himself that seemed to dictate his every movement. Nicholas looked over at him with concern; his eyes kept closing, only to shoot back open again. He trying his best not to fall asleep right there, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You might sleep here tonight," Nicholas said, thinking of the cramped beds and the creeping cold.
Smike blinked at Nicholas; his face looked blank, his eyes dull. "But this is not my bed…" he murmured.
"It can be," said Nicholas, "I am alone in this bed, and all the others are so crowded; how many sleep in your bed?"
Smike thought for a moment. "Five," he said.
Nicholas nodded and lifted his feet up on the bed to avoid touching his stockings to the icy, dirty floor. It was so cold in the dormitory that some mornings he saw frost on the floor and the bed frames. He looked back over at Smike; he was shivering again. He picked up his one thin blanket and put it over Smike’s shoulders, and then sat close to Smike, and smiled at him. "We might keep warm together, at the least. The night promises to be very cold."
Finally, Smike nodded. He looked over at Nicholas and, and his eyes seemed brighter, a little happier. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Will you really leave here?" he asked.
"I know not," said Nicholas, truthfully.
"I have been warmer, since you came, though the nights only get colder," said the boy.
Nicholas nodded, though he was not sure what the boy meant. "Take off those boots," he said, endeavoring to change the subject. "And come, lie down. It’s time we slept." He laid down himself, and a moment later Smike eased down beside him, sighing as he stretched out on the mattress.
Nicholas turned onto his side; Smike was lying facing him. "Thank you," the boy murmured. Nicholas nodded, again not exactly sure what Smike meant, but understanding the tone. He reached out and touched Smike's hair; Smike closed his eyes. Nicholas kissed his forehead; Smike's lips parted into a slight smile.
"No one has ever shown you tenderness, have they?" whispered Nicholas, his face still close to Smike's.
"No," murmured Smike. A tear leaked out form the corner of his eye. Nicholas wiped it away with a finger.
"Don't," he murmured. "There’s no need."
Smike nodded a little; his eyes opened. Nicholas leaned in and kissed him on the lips. The rest of Smike's body might have been cold and rough, but his lips were warm and soft. After a second, Nicholas pulled away. "Go to sleep," he murmured.
Smike turned over and sighed contentedly. Nicholas adjusted the blanket, making sure his friend was covered; Nicholas felt warm enough, but he knew Smike would be cold; he was still shivering a little.
Nicholas must have dropped off, because he awoke with a little start later. It could have been three minutes, or it could have been three hours. He was surprised, in his state of half wakefulness, to find Smike lying beside him. He realized then, though, why he’d awoken; Smike had stopped shivering, and was lying still. Nicholas leaned over his friend to look into his face; he was smiling in his sleep again. Nicholas smiled too, and dropped back to sleep, his arm draped over his friend's shoulder.
Chapter 13
"The cold feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself upon his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though in search of some particular object."