As the day wore on, a thick sultriness seemed to descend upon Katyk. The sky was yet clear, but it felt like a storm. In his home, Reb Plotnick stirred uneasily. There was not a trace of wind. Yet something was at hand.
Misha arrived midway through the morning. He had put Polya, Olga, and Mrs. Remington on the train back to St. Petersburg, he said, and would himself return tomorrow, once he was assured all was well with Anna and her family. He commented on the peculiar feel in the air as well.
The stillness of the spring day seemed too full. Misha came upon Yevno early in the afternoon, standing beside the door of the barn, glancing with an almost bewildered expression this way and that, as if expecting something. Misha shielded his eyes with his hand and followed Yevno’s gaze into the distance. But there was nothing to be seen.
An empty unsettledness gradually gave way to a vague sense of anticipation, which led to expectation. Before the day was out, Yevno finally declared, storm clouds would appear in the north and a fierce wind would kick up. There could be no other explanation.
Anna was not so sure the atmosphere was carrying a spring storm toward them, although she had felt the air heavy with premonitions since her time of thought and prayer at the willow tree. As the day had progressed, she had unconsciously begun walking with lighter step. Without even being aware of it, her heart had started to beat faster, and her lips began quietly humming long-forgotten melodies.
Even the children seemed restless. By the late afternoon all of Katyk had begun to share it. Anna became more and more agitated. Misha was preparing to leave. She did not know when she would see him again. Perhaps that was the cause for her disquiet.
She walked outside. There was her father, standing with his hand shading his eyes, gazing toward the southeast. She walked toward him.
A sound of plodding footsteps running toward them turned both of their faces toward the village. There was young Paplanovich hastening toward them, a boy of twelve who lived next to the tavern. He ran straight to Yevno, shouting something Anna could not make out at first.
“They told me to get you, Yevno Pavlovich. They said he has come back!”
“Who told you?” said Yevno.
“The men at the tavern. They said for you to come!”
“Who has come back?”
“The man . . . the man from St. Petersburg! You must come!”
Yevno began to follow as Anna approached.
“It seems your baby’s father has returned at last,” said Yevno to her. “Paplanovich says he is in the village.”
“The count?” said Anna, glancing toward the buildings in the distance.
Whatever her father or young Paplanovich said in answer, Anna heard nothing of it. Suddenly she was running toward the village, strides ahead of either the boy or the old man behind her. The figure on horseback in the distance was small. But she knew Dmitri well enough to recognize in an instant that the regal bearing could not be his any more than it could be any promieshik for many versts around Katyk!
Her heart beat wildly within her. Tears streamed down her face.
How could it be? But with every step she knew it could be no other! The horse was plainly visible now, galloping toward her, clumps of dirt flying into the air behind it. On its back the princely rider wielded the reins as he had once swung a great scythe across the very field through which he now flew.
Even as Anna ran hysterically, joyously, laughing, and sobbing straight toward them, he reined the huge animal in amid a whinnying commotion of dust and hooves and rearing and snorting.
He was off the beast even before the four wild, skittish legs were stilled, taking three giant strides before scooping her into his arms. At the touch of the face he had dreamed of night and day against his own cheek, suddenly the floodwaters of tears were released and he wept with joy.
“Sergei . . . Sergei!” Anna cried, tears flowing without restraint. He held her to him, his chest heaving with great sobs of healing, deliverance, and love.
“Oh, Anna,” he whispered into her ear at length, “how I love you!”
Time seemed to stand still for the two reunited lovers as they stood blissfully in each other’s arms. All the hundreds of questions would come later. For these few precious moments, there was nothing else in the universe than to drink in the glorious mere presence of the other. What were words alongside the yearned-for, dreamed-of embrace?
Thus they stood, eyes closed, still breathing heavily from the exertion, weeping freely, unconscious even of Yevno as his lumbering gait caught up with his daughter, unconscious of the cottage now emptying of its inhabitants, all now shouting and running toward them, unaware of Yevno’s boisterous welcome to the nobleman he had once considered his friend and to whom he had agreed to give his daughter’s hand.
Gradually sounds began to filter into Anna’s and Sergei’s ears. The rest of the world beckoned. They could not ignore it forever.
Slowly, reluctantly they fell apart, pausing just long enough to hold each other’s eyes for a moment—a gaze which, like the embrace, said everything.
Then came the voices, the running feet, Yevno’s handshake and slap on the back, Sophia’s tears, Anna’s laughter and more crying, and Sergei’s attempted answers to the fast-flowing questions from the children.
Last of all, behind the others, walked Misha. He approached Sergei. Their eyes met, then the handshake, an embrace. Misha stepped back. There were tears in his eyes—not tears of loss, but rather of love.
“Welcome home, my friend,” he said in a soft and somewhat husky voice. “Your Anna, as you see, is well. I pray I have been faithful to you in my care for her.”
“I’m sure you have been,” replied Sergei.
“She will tell you all,” rejoined Misha.
He turned toward Anna, embraced her warmly, then took her hand and placed it in Sergei’s. “Anna,” he said, “you are as fine a woman as it has been my privilege to know. And now . . . I give you your prince.”