An Oxford Tragedy by J. C. Masterman Page B

still, as it seemed to most of us, in the more leisured atmosphere of Edwardian, or even of late Victorian times. His wife had been at once a stronger and a finer type. As I remember her, indeed, she had been a remarkable woman, not very artistic, not very clever, and yet, by virtue of character and a deep instinctive sympathy for others, a kind of natural leader; devoted to her family, and adored by them. Other women had a deep respect and liking for her, and, since it was her habit to speak ill of no one, everyone had nothing but good to speak of her. As wife of the Head of one of Oxford’s greatest colleges she was happily and fortunately placed, but in 1913, very suddenly, she died, and from that grief the President never quite recovered. He fulfilled his duties, and fulfilled them admirably – no Head of a House was better liked or more generally respected – but his heart was buried in the past. There were two daughters, Ruth who was fourteen when her mother died, and Mary who was four years younger; each of them in turn had filled her mother’s place in the President’s Lodgings, and each had filled it to admiration.
    Ruth and Mary. How can I describe them? I guess well enough how some of the great artists might have painted them; I can imagine how some of my favourite poets might have pictured their charm; most clearly of all I can see them illuminating the pages of George Meredith. But I am an old bachelor of sixty. If anything here is lacking to them of youthful charms and womanly allure, blame me, not them.It is the fashion among men of my generation when they wish to bestow the highest praise on a young woman to say, ‘Thank God, she isn’t one of those modern, cocktail-drinking, cigarette-smoking, jazzing modern creatures.’ It would be true to say that of Ruth and Mary, and yet it would be only a fraction of the truth. For they were both children of their own post-war generation, though they escaped, as it seemed naturally, its less attractive traits … The secret, as I believe, of their charm was an intense enjoyment of life, and a love and comprehensive sympathy for the lives of others. If you had tea with Ruth you knew that she would rejoice with you in your minor triumphs, and sympathize with understanding in your petty disappointments; if you took Mary to the theatre you knew before you started that she as well as you would enjoy every moment of the evening. Like Lady Everingham in
Coningsby
, they possessed the two fine qualities which make the art of conversation. They could originate, and they could sympathize, for they possessed at the same time ‘the habit of communicating and the habit of listening.’ They had inherited their character and their sympathy from their mother, their charm of manner and their good looks from their father. They seemed, too, to exercise their sway over callow undergraduates and middle-aged dons with equal facility. How often in their drawing-room had I seen a crusty professor thaw and become youthful and enthusiastic, or a shy and tongue-tied undergraduate cast aside his stiff and clumsy mannerisms to grow gay, and natural and happy. It used to be a saying in the years after the war that every undergraduate at St Thomas’s was in love with one of the Verekers, and every don with both. It pleased me, as a confirmed bachelor, to suppose that my affection for them was of a semi-paternal kind. Perhaps it was – I cannot be quite sure. But I am certain that of all the young ladies whom I have met none could hold a candle to Ruth and MaryVereker. I know I am a sentimentalist, but where they are concerned, who could be otherwise? They had, of course, been brought up in college and I think they loved St Thomas’s and all that belonged to it almost as much as St Thomas’s loved them.
    It was in 1927 that Ruth married. I can still feel the shock which the announcement of her engagement gave me. Men, I remember to have thought,