One day, long before his voyage to Germany, Stephen had cleverly taken advantage of his father in an hour when the old man was tipsy and merry, and had extorted a promise that the Escurial was to be his upon his marriage. When he came home with Letitia he counted upon the fulfilment of this promise. He intended to establish himself as a lawyer in Buenos Ayres, and restore the neglected house.
He reminded his father of the compact. The old man denied it bluntly. He winked gravely. “Can you show me any record—black on white? Well, then, what do you want? A fine lawyer you are to think that you can enforce an agreement of which there is no record!”
Stephen did not reply. But from time to time—coldly, methodically, calmly—he reminded the old man of his promise.
The old man said: “The woman you have married is not to my taste. She doesn’t fit into our life. She reads and reads. It’s sickening. She’s a milk-faced doll without sap. Let her be content with what she has. I shan’t be such a fool as to plunge into expenditures on your account. It would cost a pretty penny to make the Escurial habitable. And I have no cash. Absolutely none.”
Stephen estimated the available capital of his father as amounting to between four and five millions. “You owe me my patrimony,” he answered.
“I owe you a damned good thrashing!” the old man replied grimly.
“Is that your last word?”
The old man answered: “Far from it. I won’t speak my last word for a dozen years. But I like peace at home, and so I’ll make a bargain with you. Whenever your wife gives birth to a man-child, you shall have the Escurial, and fifty thousand pesos to boot.”
“Give me the promise in writing! Black on white counts—as you yourself said.”
The old man laughed a dry laugh. “Good!” he cried, and winked with both eyes. “You’re improving. Glad to see that the money spent on your legal studies wasn’t quite wasted.” With a sort of glee he sat down at his desk, and made out the required document.