From the first, the doctors had little hope of saving Olive. Her constitution, never a strong one, had been undermined by the luxurious pleasure-seeking of her life and the deadly nerve-poison of the morphia. That night and day on the upturned boat—drenched with the waves, chilled, famished, tortured with thirst—had been an ordeal to shatter even a woman with big reserves of strength, and Olive had no such reserves.
When Matheson and his father-in-law hurried back to Hull, it was to find that life was slowly ebbing. Towards the end her mind cleared of delirium, and she spoke rationally.
"Perhaps it is all for the best, Clifford," she murmured. "You came back to me, but could I have held you?"
"You had come to care for me again," he answered gently.
"Yes, but I am so uncertain. It's my nature. I might have held you for a little while ... and then."
"You must think only of getting well again," he urged.
"Don't try to buoy me up with false hopes. It is kind of you, dear; but I see things clearly now.... You came back to me, and I am content. I want rest now—just rest."
Presently her eyelids closed in sleep. Matheson sat watching by her bedside for a long while, holding her hand. She stirred once and murmured drowsily, "You came back to me." And in her sleep she passed away so gradually that none could say when mortal life had ended and the life eternal had begun.