"He loved his dogs most of all," said Dorothy, sobbing. "Oh, come upstairs, please. You are the master now; and oh, I want you to come to his room. They said I must not give any orders about anything."
She led the way up the broad old staircase, where the morning sun was shining in gleams of light through chinks in the shutters, and, pausing for a moment or two before a door till he was close beside her, she opened it very cautiously. The room was low and dark, wainscoted with almost black oak, which reflected no light from the candles that were burning in honor of the dead. A heavy four-post bedstead held the corpse of the dead man, laid out in the terrible rigidness of death; eyes closed, lips locked, head and hands motionless for ever. The head and face were uncovered, and the weird, indescribable seal of death was on them. No light would ever reach those closed eyes again, no sound would ever enter those deafened ears.
If that had been possible, the uproar that followed Sidney's entrance into the darkened room would have aroused the dead man. For to each of the four posts of the great bed was chained a huge mastiff, which, as he stepped across the threshold, sprang forward as far as the chain would allow him, as if to attack the intruder, with a wild chorus of furious howling and baying.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, starting back in horror, "what is the meaning of this?"
"He would have it so," answered Dorothy, as she clung with both hands to his arm; "he would have them here all the time he was ill, because he said no one else loved him. And John and Betsy said they must stay here till you came, because you are the master now. But, oh! they were howling and wailing all night, and the night before, and it is dreadful. Oh! be quiet, Juno and Di; he cannot hear you now. Yes, you loved him, I know. But he is gone, and can never come back to you. Poor dogs! lie down, lie down. I will be kind to you, and take care of you; but you must not stay here, now the master is come. Poor dogs, poor dogs!"
Her voice fell into tones of pity, and she loosed Sidney's arm, and ventured up to the mastiff nearest to her, laying her hand gently on its great rough head and speaking caressing words, until all four crouched down moaning, as if they understood her. After the furious barking it seemed as if a sorrowful silence had fallen into the death-chamber, though the dogs still whined and whimpered, but quietly, as if they were growing exhausted with their grief.
"He loved them very much," said Dorothy, looking across to Sidney as he stood at some distance, afraid of provoking the mastiffs to a fresh outbreak if he attempted to draw nearer. "Oh, yes! he loved them ever so much more than he did me. He always said I should live to be a sorrow and a curse to him; and it was no use wasting his love upon a girl. I am almost grown up now; but I've never been a sorrow and a curse to him. And I never would have been, father," she added, turning and speaking to the corpse, as if it could hear her; "perhaps you know now that I would always have been a good girl to you."
"Come away, my poor child," said Sidney, with a feeling of deep pity and tenderness for the desolate girl, "you belong to me now. Come away, and these poor dogs shall be taken out of this room. I cannot come to you, lest they should begin their fierce uproar again."
She was shivering with excitement when she reached his side; and he put his arm round her, and almost carried her away from the gloomy room and terrible assemblage of mourners. The light was stronger outside the door, and he could see her small, pale face quivering, and her dark eyes gleaming with terror and grief. He stooped down and kissed the pale face.
"Now, Dorothy," he said, "listen to me. I have no daughter, and from this moment I take you as mine; and my wife will be as a mother to you. It is a new life you are about to begin; quite different from this old one. Which is your room, my child? Go, and rest now till afternoon. And remember that I am master here, and I will take every care of you."