Brydell followed Cunliffe to the steerage and sitting around the table were about a dozen of the oldest and steadiest members of the third class, while others were grouped about as listeners. Esdaile, looking deadly pale, sat in a chair a little way off.
“Mr. Brydell,” said the oldest of them, Maxwell,—known as “Old McSwell,” because of his elegant appearance, but who was one of the most reliable young fellows in the class,—“we want your testimony in regard to a question affecting Mr. Esdaile’s honor. It has been whispered about the ship that Mr. Esdaile is the son of Private Grubb of the marines, whom you say you have known nearly all your life. The difference in their names is explained by Mr. Esdaile taking another name. Some days ago Mr. Esdaile went to call on the captain’s wife at the hotel, and in the course of conversation complained that this report, which he considered injurious to him, was going about. He denied flatly that Private Grubb was his father, and said he was the son of Thomas Esdaile. The captain’s wife thereupon denied it and has been very much embarrassed by hearing from the very best authority that Private Grubb really is Mr. Esdaile’s father. Can you give us any facts in the case?”
The first idea that occurred to Brydell as he looked at the culprit was, “What a fool!” Esdaile had stood near the top of his class; still he lacked the good sense that almost invariably goes with good morals and had told a lie which, like all lies, must in the end be detected. Brydell could feel no sympathy for Esdaile, but the idea of poor Grubb’s distress shook him. He hesitated a moment or two before he spoke.
“I know all the facts, I think,” he said in a low voice. “Private Grubb is Mr. Esdaile’s father. I have known it ever since I knew Private Grubb, seven or eight years ago. Mr. Esdaile’s grandfather gave him some money on condition that he should take the name of his mother’s family, Esdaile. I want to say right here that Private Grubb is one of the best men in the world. Admiral Beaumont and my father have both said so a hundred times in my presence, and although he is a plain, uneducated man, not one of us here need be ashamed to own him.”
At this there was a long and painful pause. Esdaile’s face, that had been pale, turned a greenish hue; he had still enough sense left to feel the accumulated scorn of his classmates. It was a solemn moment for those young judges. Esdaile had not been popular among them, but they fully realized that they were branding him in a way he would probably retain as long as he lived.
“Have you anything to say, Mr. Esdaile?” asked Maxwell.
Esdaile’s lips formed the word “Nothing,” but no sound was heard.
“It is the opinion of your class,” continued Maxwell after a pause, “that it would be best for you to resign at once. If you think differently, you may depend upon it that the class will take every means of making the academy too hot to hold you. Some liars and tale-bearers have been found who tried to stick it out, but there is no instance recorded of any one of them succeeding. You may go now.”
In a few minutes they had all scattered. Most of them went on deck, where in little groups they discussed the matter gravely and with heavy hearts, for the presence of meanness and dishonor is among the most painful things in the world.
The officers said no word to the cadets about it, nor did the cadets speak of it to the officers. It was within their own province to maintain the standard of probity in their class, and they had a stern and effective way of doing it. Therefore when for the next few days no cadet spoke to Esdaile except when absolutely required in the performance of duty, the officers saw plainly enough what was in the wind.