And by dint of musing and reflecting, her heart began, in a moment, to bubble over with such excitement that, much against her will, her thoughts in their superabundance rolled on incessantly. So speedily directing that a lamp should be lighted, she little concerned herself about avoiding suspicion, shunning the use of names, or any other such things, and set to work and rubbed the ink, soaked the pen, and then wrote the following stanzas on the two old handkerchiefs:
Vain in my eyes the tears collect; those tears in vain they flow,
Which I in secret shed; they slowly drop; but for whom though?
The silk kerchiefs, which he so kindly troubled to give me,
How ever could they not with anguish and distress fill me?
The second ran thus:
Like falling pearls or rolling gems, they trickle on the sly.
Daily I have no heart for aught; listless all day am I.
As on my pillow or sleeves' edge I may not wipe them dry,
I let them dot by dot, and drop by drop to run freely.
And the third:
The coloured thread cannot contain the pearls cov'ring my face.
Tears were of old at Hsiang Chiang shed, but faint has waxed each
trace.
Outside my window thousands of bamboos, lo, also grow,
But whether they be stained with tears or not, I do not know.
Lin Tai-yü was still bent upon going on writing, but feeling her whole body burn like fire, and her face scalding hot, she advanced towards the cheval-glass, and, raising the embroidered cover, she looked in. She saw at a glance that her cheeks wore so red that they, in very truth, put even the peach blossom to the shade. Yet little did she dream that from this date her illness would assume a more serious phase. Shortly, she threw herself on the bed, and, with the handkerchiefs still grasped in her hand, she was lost in a reverie.
Putting her aside, we will now take up our story with Hsi Jen. She went to pay a visit to Pao-ch'ai, but as it happened, Pao-ch'ai was not in the garden, but had gone to look up her mother. Hsi Jen, however, could not very well come back with empty hands so she waited until the second watch, when Pao-ch'ai eventually returned to her quarters.
Indeed, so correct an estimate of Hsüeh P'an's natural disposition did Pao-ch'ai ever have, that from an early moment she entertained within herself some faint suspicion that it must have been Hsüeh P'an, who had instigated some person or other to come and lodge a complaint against Pao-yü. And when she also unexpectedly heard Hsi Jen's disclosures on the subject, she became more positive in her surmises. The one, who had, in fact, told Hsi Jen was Pei Ming. But Pei Ming too had arrived at the conjecture in his own mind, and could not adduce any definite proof, so that every one treated his statements as founded partly on mere suppositions, and partly on actual facts; but, despite this, they felt quite certain that it was (Hsüeh P'an) who had intrigued.
Hsüeh P'an had always enjoyed this reputation; but on this particular instance the harm was not, actually, his own doing; yet as every one, with one consent, tenaciously affirmed that it was he, it was no easy matter for him, much though he might argue, to clear himself of blame.