“My boy has been preserved and thrives,” says old Sol Gills, rubbing his hands. “What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!”
The Captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the table, but who has been fidgeting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in his place, looks doubtfully at Mr Gills, and says:
“Sol! There’s the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would you wish to have it up tonight, my boy, and drink to Wal”r and his wife?”
The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand into the breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coat, brings forth his pocket-book, and takes a letter out.
“To Mr Dombey,” says the old man. “From Walter. To be sent in three weeks’ time. I’ll read it.”
“‘Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a distant voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God knows that I am.
“‘Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without remorse, united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will not say to you. You know why, and you are her father.
“‘Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.
“‘I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is nothing I expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to believe that Florence has someone ever near her, the great charge of whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly assure you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief.’”
Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back his pocket-book in his coat.