Chapter Seven.
Flight.
With regard to Everitt and Jack Hibbert, a change had taken place which could not but be considered remarkable. Everitt, who had hitherto been noted for the energy and industry of his work, now was frequently absent from his studio, and when there painted in a half-hearted fashion, which was not likely to do him much good. He was conscious of it, annoyed, and was always expecting a return of his old enthusiasm; as it did not arrive, he became depressed, and told Jack that he believed he had lost the trick of it. The change in Jack himself fortunately lay in quite another direction; Everitt could not tell what had come over the lad, who was early and late in his studio, and worked with a purpose and intensity which he had never known before. Me used at intervals to rush into Everitt’s studio to ask his advice and assistance. Smitten with compunction one morning when the artist had spent a good deal of time over a question of colour, he expressed himself to that effect.
“My dear fellow,” said Everitt, “don’t disturb yourself. I don’t know that I am of much good to you, but I’m very sure I’m of less to myself. If it wasn’t for you, I suspect I should drop it all for a month or two.”
“Oh, you’ve been overworking yourself; that will pass,” said Jack, sagely.
Everitt walked over to his own canvas and stood regarding it with his hands thrust into his pockets. It was a forge, where two horsemen, escaping from pursuit, had pulled up to get a thrown shoe replaced; one had dismounted; the other, turned sideways on his horse, was anxiously looking back along the road by which they had ridden; a girl pressed forward to see the riders.
“There’s my morning’s work,” said Everitt, pointing to her figure; “and it’s wood—no life, no go in it.”
“Well, you know I don’t think much of that model.”