The young man knew nothing of the meaning of the land to RoBards; he knew nothing of the secrets the house retained like a strong vault. He had the imperial eye of youth, a hawk’s look to far horizons. He found old David querulous and old David found him sacrilegious; so they fought a civil war as uncivilly over the enslaving of the Westchester waters as North and South over the enslaving of the black nations stolen out of Africa. Keith began to incline to his father’s side, for he shared with him the love of the natal soil. Then Ward turned on Keith with equal impatience, denouncing him as a “back number.” This brought about another alliance between Keith and his father, and they solemnly pledged themselves to save Tuliptree from New York. CHAPTER LIII When the new lake of Kensico was linked to the Williamsbridge reservoir, Keith and Ward visited the farm. They spoke of tremendous future projects; for the problem of fetching New York water was one that promised no respite. They went back to the city, leaving RoBards there to install a new “superintendent,” the fifth since Albeson had trudged into his grave after his fat old wife. Then the autumnal gales began to squander the golden leaves of Westchester,—the spendthrift heirs that strip all estates and bring back poverty in its everlasting rhythm. One night a wind came down in a tidal wave of air, a wind made up of an army of winds. RoBards stood out on his porch to watch the battle of his trees, each engaged with some fierce unseen wrestler that tore off every rag of leaf and twisted every limb, but could not win a fall. He laughed with pride to see his tulip trees defending his graves. They neither yielded nor fled; and they did not die. The air resounded like a pounded drum with the blasts of wind. The yard was a cauldron of boiling leaves and a smoke of dust. Mrs. Laight, the new farmer’s wife, begged the old gentleman to come inside the house, but he motioned her away, and she watched him through a window; saw him chuckle and wave his hands to his brave trees. He trusted even to the old giant whose roots he had sawed off when they pushed into the cellar walls. But he had trusted too long. A vast breaker of air rode over the Tarn of Mystery and splashed its pool with a dozen toppled veterans, oaks, sycamores, and cedars; then the whole weight of its rush rolled down the hill upon the house and, plucking off shingles like leaves, wrenching shutters loose and scattering a chimney into flying bricks, fell upon the ancient tulip tree on its outer side and brought it down like a fallen lighthouse. It smashed the roof it had shaded so many years and sliced off the graceful old cornices. Mrs. Laight screamed with terror, then with horror; for she saw RoBards go to his knees under a deluge of splintered timbers. Then the bole of the tulip tree rolled down upon him as the temple column on Samson; and he was lost to the sight of her affrighted eyes. CHAPTER LIV