CHAPTER XLV
But Helen wanted no assistance. The tameless energy of eighteen bore her through all the fatigues of broken nights and watchful days; and every hour her husband became dearer to her as she became more necessary to him. His eyes followed her with the tenderest gaze as she moved noiselessly about his room; the hand that brought him refreshment or medicine was warmly pressed to his lips; the fondest words of endearment fell gently from his pallid lips. If she left the room, he could have addressed her in the touching words of one of the best of English poetesses:
"Watch me, oh, watch me still,
Through the long night's dreary hours—
Uphold, by thy firm will,
Worn nature's sinking powers.
While yet I see thee there
(Thy loose locks round thee flying),
So young, and fresh, and fair,
I feel not I am dying."
Helen had expected, from former recollections, that the period of convalescence might be one of impatience and irritation. "All men are impatient when they are ill," she thought; "but somehow I do not think I shall mind it now. I know I can make him follow all Dr. Grey's directions, and that is all that is of real importance; and if he is low and vexed at times, it is only natural, poor fellow!" But he never was vexed or cross, which was the word that Helen had sedulously refrained from using, even in her thoughts. Once he was almost peremptory in his orders that she should go to her own room and take one good night's rest, leaving him to the care of the nurse; but he was met by an equally peremptory refusal, and an assertion that a mattress on the floor was the most comfortable bed possible; and he was also told that he was on no account to interfere with the arrangements of the sick-room, but to do what he was told, and get well as fast as he could. He only smiled, as he saw that all fear of him had passed away, and in the perfect ease of Helen's manner, amounting to playfulness, when he was well enough to be amused, he felt that the love which he had once doubted, and almost driven away, was again his own; and a quiet rest came over the weary heart which had loved with all the irritation of believing it met with no return.
She told him of her hurried journey, of her troubles at the hotel, and insisted on his thinking Laurel Cottage—which could hold only themselves and four servants—the most charming residence in the world.
"My poor Helen, what a quantity of trouble I have given you! but surely you ought not to have been alone at that horrible hotel."
"I was not," she said, quite frankly, for she felt that the days of jealousy were over. "Mary Forrester lives in this neighbourhood, and she came with me; and Beaufort joined us, and was so useful during that first dreadful week—sitting up half the night, and writing accounts of you half the day, and making love to Mary at all odd moments; and those two people who had hated each other fell in love on the strength of their mutual interest in your illness. You have made that marriage, dearest, simply by the fright you gave us."
"Dear old Beaufort!" said Lord Teviot; "he is a thorough good fellow. I fancied I had a vision of him one night by my bedside. Helen, I should so like to see him. Am not I well enough?"
"Not quite, dear; to-morrow Dr. Grey thinks you may be moved into the next room, and your servant has ambitious views of shaving you, and dressing you up in a splendid dressing-gown. After that I may perhaps allow you to 'see company,' on a limited scale; and Beaufort will come down to us whenever you like, but at present he is in London." She did not add that he was there engaged with lawyers on the subject of Harry Lorimer's claims; she was most anxious to keep that worrying history from her husband as long as possible.
"And your mother?" he said. "I do not suppose there is such another nurse in the world as my dear little wife; but still, Lady Eskdale must have great qualifications for that office. I should like her to pet me in her soft way; and if she were here, you would be satisfied to leave me with her, and go out for a little air and exercise."
"No, I should not. I take plenty of exercise, running about the house in your service; and mamma is so gentle, she would let you commit all sorts of imprudences." She was silent for a few moments, and a deep flush spread itself over her drooping face, then, suddenly raising her eyes, she said, "My own darling, I do not wish that anyone, not even mamma, should come between you and me just now." She threw her arms round him, and, with a fond kiss, added, "Teviot, you once thought I did not love you as you loved me. You do not think so now, do you? You never will think so again? I was afraid of you, I believe—perhaps at last a little jealous; but you were no sooner gone than I found out that I was very unhappy without you. Then came the news of your illness; and when I saw you in that wretched cabin, dying as I thought, I cannot tell you"—and she shuddered as she spoke—"my utter misery—the remorse I felt at having ever consented to leave you. How wrong I was!"
"No, no!" he interrupted her, as he pressed her to his heart. "I do not wonder you were glad to get away from me. I behaved like an idiot and a brute, and frightened my poor child out of her senses, and expected her to love me all the more for it."
"Well," she said, smiling through her tears, "you have frightened me into them again. The terrors of the last fortnight have been much worse than those of St. Mary's; but they have satisfied me on one point—that when I thought I did not love you more than any other human being, I was only deceiving myself and you. Oh, Teviot, in all your wanderings and sufferings you were so good, so kind! Sometimes I thought my heart would break, when you spoke so lovingly of me, not knowing that I was by you. However, all this is over now! I cannot be thankful enough that you have been spared, and now only promise"
"I will promise at once, without being asked, never to distrust my own Helen again. How can I ever doubt your affection," he said, with much emotion, "when I know that I owe my life, under Heaven, to your devotion? Kiss me once more, my darling, and then I will rest."
And the rest which succeeded this spontaneous avowal of his wife's true affection was the calmest and the most refreshing the invalid had yet known. Helen's mind was not so peaceful. She knew that there was yet a trial in store for him, and one that he would feel deeply. A number of letters were waiting for him; and at last the moment came in which he asked for them. Her hand shook as she gave them, and she said, with a faltering voice, "I hope there will be no bad news in them."
"No," he said; "I cannot anticipate any to-day. I feel so much better, and it is such a comfort to be by an open window, and to breathe the fresh air again! It is so very mild for the time of year, that I really wish, Nell, you would go out for a short walk. You ought to have had your carriage sent down; but we shall be moving soon to Teviot House. Will you take your maid, and go out? You see I have plenty of amusement," pointing to the heaps of letters that were lying by him.
"Well, I think I will go for half an hour, as you do not want me," said Helen, who dreaded the effect that the first announcement of Mr. Lorimer's pretensions might have on Lord Teviot in his present weak state; and conjectured that he would dislike having any witness of his first emotions. "I shall not be long away."
When she returned, she found him still lying on his sofa, looking exhausted, and with two red, feverish spots on his cheeks. A quantity of opened letters were strewed on the carpet beside him; others, unopened, were still on the table. She knelt down, and, taking his thin hand in hers, said, "You have been overtiring yourself with those tiresome letters."
"Perhaps so," he said, dejectedly.
"Do not open any more; let me look over the others for you."
"No, no," he said hastily. "You should not see them; they are full of vexation."
"That is all the more reason why I should, dear Teviot. Do not keep any vexations to yourself; we should bear them better together."
"It was for your sake I did not want you to know what I have heard. My poor Helen, what will you feel, when you know that, in marrying me, you may have married an unconscious impostor? that name, and fortune, and all"
"You mean," she said, looking up at him with a smile, and kissing the hand she held, "that Harry Lorimer is trying to take it all from us. He means to be Lord Teviot himself. Happily he cannot be my Teviot, whatever happens; and who knows if he will not fail in all the rest!"
"Helen!" said Lord Teviot, starting up, "is it possible that you have heard this history before? How long have you known it?"
"Before I left Eskdale."
"And you have had all this anxiety on your mind while you have been working like a slave in your attendance on me, and seeming to have no care but for my health."
"Why, you foolish old darling, don't you see that the great care swallowed up the little one? I hardly know how to explain myself, because I can understand that as you have been attached all your life to St. Mary's and Teviot House, and your name and station, it would be a cruel trial to you to lose all this; so I did feel at times very unhappy when I thought you had to hear it all as soon as you were strong enough to bear it; but so far as I am concerned, dear Teviot (do not think me unfeeling), but this is not the sort of trial that affects me very deeply."
He looked at her, and saw that she was speaking from her heart, and not merely with the intention of comforting him; and the suspicions he had once entertained, that it was for his position, and not for himself, that she had married him, were remembered but to be repented of, and forgotten for ever. He bent his head on hers, and whispered, "My treasure above all other treasures, whatever happens, I am not to be pitied. I have what I have longed for all my life—a real, true love to depend on."
The subject of the lawsuit once begun, it was of course a constant theme of discussion; but Lord Teviot was too feeble to take any active part even on a point of such moment, and was quite satisfied to know that Lord Eskdale was acting for him, and that Lord Beaufort was staying in London solely that he might be in consultation with the lawyers. The case, as Mr. Lorimer's advisers stated it, was a very simple one. Henry, Marquess of Teviot, had two brothers, Robert, the father of this Henry Lorimer, who was born, as had always been supposed, before the marriage of his parents, and Alfred, father of the present Lord Teviot. Lord Robert and Lord Alfred both died young, and on the death of Henry, Lord Teviot, the title and estates passed to the heir presumptive, Lord Alfred's son. Henry Lorimer now asserted that he had only recently discovered that his parents were married some months before his birth, and in proof of this, he produced a certificate of the marriage of Lord Robert Lorimer to Emma Scot, in January 18—, and a registry of the birth of their son, Henry Lorimer, in the following August. He could not undertake to explain why he had not at once succeeded to the title on his uncle's death, but Lord Robert was on bad terms with his two brothers, owing to the disreputable connection he had made; and he had probably never informed them that it had ended in a marriage. Both parents had died nearly at the same time; he had been left, when only three years old, to some of his mother's relations; and he affirmed that it was only on the recent death of the old aunt who had taken charge of him that he had found the certificate of his mother's marriage.
All this sounded plausible enough; but Lord Beaufort wrote in good spirits, and said that the lawyers were sanguine, and that there had already been two or three faint offers of a compromise, which confirmed them in the idea that Mr. Lorimer had but a weak case, and that they were waiting impatiently for Lord Teviot's return to London, when he would probably be able to direct them in their search for family papers, and to point out old servants or friends of the family, whose evidence would be important.
So Helen sometimes took a very obstinate line of disbelief, at others she would try to make Lord Teviot laugh by the plans she proposed to execute, if they were reduced to poverty, which she of course represented as extreme, Lord Teviot digging and ploughing for his life, and she cooking and ironing for hers, in a picturesque brown stuff gown with short sleeves and white cuffs, and a little pink silk half-handkerchief tied either round her throat or under her chin—she did not exactly know which, but all reduced heroines wore pink silk handkerchiefs, it was de rigueur, after any loss of fortune. Lord Teviot would not of course object to the accustomed suit of velveteen.
No, he had an old shooting jacket, which would do well enough on ploughing days; but he did not think that at the worst they should be reduced to those extreme straits. Perhaps Helen could sketch out a life for them a few grades above that.
"Oh yes, dear, with the greatest ease. You would not like to keep a shop?"
"Not at all, thank you."
"Nor I. Could we afford to rent this dear little Laurel Cottage, Teviot?" He nodded. "Oh! then nothing can be pleasanter than our prospects. I shall take care of you till you are strong, and walk with you, and we can occasionally afford ourselves a drive in a gig. Phillips does already the work of butler, valet, and footman; and as for Tomkinson, no maid-of-all-work could have worked harder than she has during your illness. Seriously, Teviot, it is very easy to find fault with servants, and to be always abusing them, as most of us do, but when illness or anxiety comes, how kind and thoughtful they are! Those two have been indefatigable in their care of you, keeping the house quiet, running for doctors at all hours, inventing extempore meals; in short, acting like friends."
"Yes," said Lord Teviot, "I have observed them; Phillips has been my servant ever since I left school, and I knew his merits; but your little fly-away maid, with her curls and graces, has quite astonished me. She is so staid and thoughtful, and the little woman actually cried when she attempted to make me a congratulatory speech the day I came into this room. Of course we must make them some handsome present; and in the meanwhile, there is a parcel of fine lace somewhere amongst my boxes, which I collected for you. I dare say we could find something there that would please your Mrs. Tomkins"
"Tomkinson, dear; she is extremely distressed that you do not know her name, and I believe thinks you might just as well call mamma Lady Esk."
The parcel was soon found, and when Lord Teviot sent for Mrs. Tomkinson, and, addressing her by her proper name, presented her with a beautiful lace shawl, adding his warm thanks for her excellent nursing, she was completely overcome. After rushing up to her room, and taking a long survey of herself, she burst into a flood of tears, and then went down to the kitchen and made a cup of arrowroot flavoured with a double allowance of brandy, which she sent up with her duty to his lordship, and then returned to her looking-glass, which she visited at every spare moment during the rest of the day, snatching one half-hour for a letter to Mrs. Nelson, in which my lord's convalescence and real guipure, and my lady's goodness and the becomingness of black lace, were much mixed up together. The threatened lawsuit had now got into the newspapers, and become general property; so Mrs. Tomkinson added a fierce postscript, expressing her belief that Mr. Lorimer was "a vile imposture," and her hopes that she should live to see him hanged for forgery, and she should certainly not wear her black shawl as mourning for him indeed.