A QUESTION OF HONOR.
Esdaile avoided Brydell more than ever at Portsmouth, and as they were
in different classes it was easy for them to see but little of each
other. One night, though, Brydell having come on board, after a day’s
leave spent fishing with Grubb, was met by a third-class man as soon as
he had got on board and reported. This was his old acquaintance
Cunliffe, who had turned out a remarkably quiet and level-headed young
fellow and belonged to the section in every class which keeps up the
tone and discipline of the class.
“Brydell,” said he, “will you come into the steerage with me? Something
very important is on hand, and we want your testimony.”
Brydell went, quite ignorant of what was up, except the surmise that
some infringement of the code of cadet ethics was under discussion, and
he knew from Cunliffe’s manner it was something serious. For among these
cadets there is a rigid code of ethics which is carried out with a stern
impartiality that would do honor to much older men.
Uncontaminated by the influences of self-interest, which are learned
later in life, these young fellows insist upon certain points of honor
so tenaciously that they can practically drive any cadet out of the
academy who does not live up to them. And the greatest of these is
truthfulness.
Any failure to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, is regarded as unfitting a cadet for any association with his
fellows, and so well understood is this that there are few offences
against truth. Two things, lying and tale-bearing, are treated as
crimes, and a cadet convicted of them is not only put in Coventry, but
every other cadet makes it his business to load the offender down with
demerits, so that the class may be relieved of his presence. It is
stern, but the effect is indescribably good.
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.
Within another week Esdaile received an imposing document from the navy
department, and everybody knew that his resignation had been accepted.
He formally announced it to the captain, who asked no questions. The
officers bade him a distant good-by, and in two hours from the time
Esdaile received the notification he was off the ship and, as his
classmates supposed, forever out of the navy.
Brydell had been almost broken-hearted over the effect of Esdaile’s
disgrace upon poor Grubb. He wanted to go to see the marine at once, but
could not get leave for a day or two. Then he was suddenly taken down
with a violent cold and fever. He managed to write a few agitated lines
to Grubb, but got no answer. It was nearly ten days before he was well
enough to leave the ship and go in search of his friend.
It was about dusk of the midsummer evening when Brydell, rather pale
from his recent illness, was going toward Grubb’s quarters. Halfway
there he met the surgeon, Dr. Wayne, a kindly, elderly man, who Brydell
knew had known the marine for many years.
“Can you tell me, sir, anything about Private Grubb of the marines?”
asked Brydell without mentioning Esdaile at all.
“I don’t know whether he can be called Private Grubb of the marines any
longer,” answered the doctor with solemn eyes. “His time was up the very
day he heard of his son’s disgrace. He was on his way to the office
ready to reënlist when he heard it. He walked straight to the
office,—you know what a fine, erect fellow he was,—asked for his
discharge without a word of explanation, except to know when he could
get his papers, and turned away. He had not got a block before he fell.
People ran and picked him up,—he had on his uniform,—and they were going
to carry him to the hospital, but he wouldn’t let them. He said he was
out of the service, and he had no right to go, and no wish to go, nor
could they make him go. I happened to be near by and went to him. I
said: ‘You must go to the hospital.’ You see, he was such a sort of
institution that I couldn’t quite take in why he shouldn’t obey orders.
He tried to touch his cap and managed to say: ‘I’ve worn this uniform
twenty-four years and I have never disobeyed an officer, but I can’t go
to the hospital.’ He became so excited over it that for fear it would
kill him I let them take him into a little tavern at hand, a respectable
sort of a place patronized by workingmen. I saw he had had a stroke, and
that it was a mortal one. He asked to be left alone with me, and then
that poor fellow begged and pleaded with me not to send him to the
hospital, where everybody would know him and know of his son’s
disgrace—he told me all about it. I couldn’t have forced him to go after
that, if it had cost me my commission. He’s going to die, and as he is a
good and faithful man he shall die in as much peace as I can give him.”
Brydell grew a little faint at the words, and in an instant he was
carried back to that day so long ago when old Capps the boatswain had
been carried out of the navy yard gate on a caisson. He had not been
brought face to face with majestic Death since.
“But mightn’t he get well?” Brydell began and halted.
“No—he can’t get well,” answered the doctor quietly. “Poor honest Grubb
is dying of grief and shame over his son’s disgrace. I and the other
surgeons here have worked over him faithfully; if he had been the
ranking officer in the marine corps, we couldn’t have done any more. But
when a man is sick of life it is an incurable disease.”
“I’d like to see him,” said Brydell with pale lips.
“Go to see him, by all means. If you can rouse him, you will do him more
good than all the doctors in the world can.”
Brydell walked rapidly through the fast-closing evening to the little
tavern in a back street. The proprietor, in his shirt sleeves, answered
his inquiries civilly enough.
“We’re doin’ all we can for poor Grubb,” he said, “but I never see a man
so hopeless.”
Brydell stumbled up the narrow stairs to the little back room where, in
response to his knock, Grubb’s voice weakly answered: “Come in.” Brydell
entered.
On the narrow bed Grubb’s gaunt figure, only a little while ago so trim
and soldierly, was stretched out. His skin had lost its ruddy glow and
was quite grayish, and his eyes had sunk back into his head until they
seemed cavernous. Brydell advanced to the bed and took his hand. He was
not prepared for the change in poor Grubb, and his boyish face wore a
startled look.
“I knowed you would come as soon as you could,” the marine began. “I
asked for you right after—right after—it happened. They told me you was
sick. I got that note you wrote me. It’s a mighty comfort to me to know
there’s one honest boy in the world.”
Brydell could not say a word. He sat down in a chair by the bed, and in
spite of every effort to control himself tears started from his eyes and
fell on Grubb’s thin hands.
“Now, Mr. Brydell, what are you a-cryin’ for? You don’t want me to live
in this here world where things is so hard. And you see I’m to blame
some about that boy. I give him all I had, and I didn’t require nothin’
o’ him in return. When he first began to be ashamed of me, instead of
makin’ him see as how I was to be treated with respect, because I was
his father and a respectable man to boot, I let it go and sneaked out of
his way. But I think he must ’a’ been born a liar, ’cause your father
the leftenant indulged you just as much as I did my boy, but you allers
was a up and down truthful boy.”
“Have you heard anything of—of Esdaile?”
“No, sir, and I don’t count on hearin’, neither. He’s got some money,
and as long as that holds out it’s all he cares for. And besides, I
ain’t got no pay now. You see I just felt it like a flash, the minute I
heard o’ that boy’s disgrace, as if I didn’t want to wear this here
uniform unless I could walk down the main street lookin’ folks square in
the eye. I had worn that uniform twenty-four years and there wasn’t no
commissioned officer as kep’ himself straighter nor cleaner nor prouder
than Grubb the marine.”
“That’s true, Grubb.”
“Well, Mr. Brydell, I couldn’t look anybody in the face after that, so I
asked for my discharge papers instead of reënlistin’, and then I dropped
down in the street and it give me sort o’ relief to know that I couldn’t
git over it, because them doctors,—they’re mighty kind and attentive,
and they sets where you’re settin’ and tries to skeer me into gittin’
well,—and I know I can’t git well, and I don’t want to git well.”
Brydell could not say a word. There was something imposing in the
fierce, simple honor of the man who preferred dying to living because he
“couldn’t look anybody in the face again.” Presently Grubb spoke again
feebly: “I hope you’ll give my respectful compliments to the leftenant
and Admiral Beaumont, and tell ’em as how I hope I’ve did my duty to
their satisfaction.”
“I will,” said Brydell.
He sat there and talked a long time with Grubb—talked with him until he
had barely time to catch the ship’s boat, and had to run every step of
the way to the dock.