Helen was not.

No one could look into her face--strongly marked, but rosy-complexioned, health, and comely -- the sort of large comeliness which belongs to her peculiar type of Scotch women, especially in their middle age--without seeing that life was to her not only duty, but enjoyment--ay, in spite of the widow's cap, which marked her out as one who permanently belonged and meant to belong only to her son.
And the earl, though he was getting to look old--older than Helen did -- for his black curls were turning gray, and the worn and withered features, contrasting with the small childish figure, gave him a weird sort of aspect that struck almost painfully at first upon strangers, still Lord Cairnforth preserved the exceeding sweetness and peacefulness of expression which had made his face so beautiful as a boy, and so winning as a young man.
"He'll ne'er be an auld man," sometimes said the folk about Cairnforth, shaking their heads as they looked after him, and speculating for how many years the feeble body would hold out.

Also, perhaps--for self-interest is bound up in the heart of every human being--feeling a little anxiety as to who should come after him, to be lord and ruler over them; perhaps to be less loved, less honored--more so none could possibly be.
It was comfort to those who loved him then, and far more comfort afterward to believe--nay, to know for certain--that many a man, absorbed in the restless struggle of this busy world, prosperous citizen, husband and father, had, on the whole, led a far less happy life than the Earl of Cairnforth..