CHAPTER XL
THE INTRUDER
The great Chamoli landslip thus fulfilled its threat; the long-expected catastrophe had come, and gone. The lake had fallen five hundred feet in two hours, and worked the anticipated havoc over a large tract of country; enormous masses of trees and débris came down with the flood, bridges were carried away, and also many miles of roads. Of three native towns, and several villages, not a vestige remained. The passage of so large a volume of water through one hundred and fifty miles of valley, in the darkest hour of the night, unattended by the loss of a single life, was attributed to the services rendered by the temporary telegraph line, and the excellent work accomplished by Colonel Gascoigne, who received the thanks and congratulations of the Viceroy.
The only individual who suffered personally from the effect of the inundation was the once irresistible Lola Waldershare. For some months after the disaster she remained with the Gascoignes, a helpless imbecile, and ultimately returned to England under the charge of a hospital nurse, a mental and physical wreck.
The general and Sir Capel left Garhwal with a revised opinion of themselves, and other people. To the younger man, the trip afforded a magnificent experience. He had been brought into touch with Nature at her grandest, with human unselfishness, and heroic courage.
General Bothwell's nerves were shattered by his adventure during the flood, and he who had come to crow departed, figuratively, draggle-tailed and crestfallen. His carefully indited letters were never despatched to the press, as his prognostications had been stultified; and he returned to Chotah-Bilat in a condition of collapse, a silent and much wiser man. Doubtless, by-and-by he will recover his poise, and brag and bore and browbeat as mercilessly as ever.
Donald Gordon died suddenly of heat apoplexy in the Red Sea, and the story of the loves of Shireen and Ferhad is lost to the reading world. It is unlikely that his widow will marry—her life is dedicated to others and to good works, and her self-imposed penance has apparently no end. She is godmother to Angel's infant, and as she placed her in the arms of Padre Eliot at the font pronounced her name to be Elinor.
Sam and John flourish, as they deserve. The sole drawback to their domestic comfort is the baby. Between themselves—though never to other dogs—they stigmatize her as an intruder and a nuisance. To impart the truth, they are unaffectedly jealous.
However, as Sam has more than once been discovered reposing in the child's cot, and John accompanies the perambulator, and condescends to accept sponge-cakes and rusks, she may yet be acknowledged by her four-footed rivals, and all will be well.