Chapter 64

CHAPTER 64

An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances,
and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever

Nicholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is
shared by the friends of adverse and less fortunate days.
Surrounded by every fascination of love and hope, his warm heart
yearned towards plain John Browdie. He remembered their first
meeting with a smile, and their second with a tear; saw poor Smike
once again with the bundle on his shoulder trudging patiently by his
side; and heard the honest Yorkshireman's rough words of
encouragement as he left them on their road to London.

Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to produce a
letter which should acquaint John at full length with his altered
fortunes, and assure him of his friendship and gratitude. It so
happened, however, that the letter could never be written. Although
they applied themselves to it with the best intentions in the world,
it chanced that they always fell to talking about something else,
and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he found it impossible to
write one-half of what he wished to say, or to pen anything, indeed,
which on reperusal did not appear cold and unsatisfactory compared
with what he had in his mind. At last, after going on thus from day
to day, and reproaching himself more and more, he resolved (the more
readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to make a hasty trip into
Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr and Mrs Browdie without a
word of notice.

Thus it was that between seven and eight o'clock one evening, he and
Kate found themselves in the Saracen's Head booking-office, securing
a place to Greta Bridge by the next morning's coach. They had to go
westward, to procure some little necessaries for his journey, and,
as it was a fine night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.

The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and
Kate had so many anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many
anecdotes of Frank, and each was so interested in what the other
said, and both were so happy and confiding, and had so much to talk
about, that it was not until they had plunged for a full half-hour
into that labyrinth of streets which lies between Seven Dials and
Soho, without emerging into any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas
began to think it just possible they might have lost their way.

The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking
about, and walking first to one end of the street and then to the
other, he could find no landmark he could recognise, and was fain to
turn back again in quest of some place at which he could seek a
direction.

It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few