Page 13 - DENG105_ELECTIVE_ENGLISH_II

Elective English–II

Notes Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong
night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine.
Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and
decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

“It is the last one,” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the
wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time.”
“Dear, dear!” said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, “think of me, if you won’t
think of yourself. What would I do?”
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making
ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as
one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging
to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again
loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch
eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her
chicken broth over the gas stove.

“I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie,” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to
show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now,
and some milk with a little port in it, and—no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack
some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.”
And hour later she said:

“Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
“Even chances,” said the doctor, taking Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “With good nursing
you’ll win.” And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is—some
kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute.
There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.”
The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now—
that’s all.”
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue
and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

“I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-
day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first
day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and
icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they
found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some
scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the
window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or
moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted it there the
night that the last leaf fell.”

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