Chapter 415: Chapter 327 Taichua Goddess
The same night, yet some rejoice while others sorrow.
At the poetry gathering held at the household of Cui—whose surname was long changed to Cui—it was again the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth lunar month; again, dignitaries attended in no small number. Though the garden of House Cui could not match the extravagant splendor of the Prince Mansion, it still bore the refined spirit of a well-to-do family: elegant pavilions and terraces, winding cobblestone paths shaded by bamboo groves, and a special greenhouse for admiring flowers. Walking through such a garden, one finds oneself imbued with the essence of Jiangnan.
This poetry gathering on the twenty-seventh was arranged with grandeur to demonstrate that despite the Lin Party’s downfall, House Cui remained wealthy and socially significant. Gold-threaded invitations were sent to household after household, inviting a considerable crowd. The occasion could not compare to poetry gatherings held at the Prince Mansion, where the social threshold was far higher, but House Cui seemed to harbor a spirit of welcoming all.
The gathering created merriment throughout the house, and even the once-dead courtyard of Lin Wanxiao now carried some sound. Early that day, Xiuhe busied herself, not only helping with tasks for the gathering but also readying herself for the arduous task of persuading her mistress to attend—especially the latter.
She had thought this would be as challenging as ascending to heaven, preparing to drag her widowed mistress by sheer force if necessary, yet unexpectedly, her mistress awoke at the second crow of the rooster. In the dim morning light, the ever-frugal mistress lit a candle.
Xiuhe saw Lin Wanxiao, who looked much more wan and hollowed than before, seated at the dressing table. She applied powder and rouge, rarely used in times past, and upon noticing Xiuhe awake called her over to help arrange her hair and affix the decorative forehead flower.
It was a heart-stirring sight. Every detail—the earrings, hairpins, bracelets, and even the finger guards—was arranged meticulously. Xiuhe hadn’t seen her mistress look so spirited in a long time. Though sorrow still lingered on her face, the lively interest gleaming in her gaze could not be feigned.
Moreover, the mistress, who had always dressed in somber mourning clothes, astonishingly retrieved a gown—a garment from her youth—from the wardrobe. Its design was refined, its colors graceful: a pale azure interwoven with vibrant goose-yellow. The horse-face skirt was embroidered with lotus blossoms. At the sight of it, Xiuhe could not hold back her tears—it was the dress her mistress wore as a young maiden.
Why did her mistress show such interest in this poetry gathering? Who could be coming?
Keeping her mistress’s good name in mind, Xiuhe dared not stray into wild speculation, yet she had an inkling it could only be him. Apart from that household head, who else could it be?
This thought led Xiuhe to an extra step of preparedness—she brought along a copy of *The Peony Pavilion*.
The story of *The Peony Pavilion* was exceedingly simple. It spoke of Du Liniang, a maiden whose heart stirred with the first blooms of love while wasting away in her boudoir. Wandering alone in her family’s garden, she unexpectedly encountered a scholar, with whom mutual infatuation blossomed. They were swept away in an amorous haze, yet upon awakening, the girl realized it had been but a dream.
Stricken by lovesickness, the girl fell gravely ill, withered in mournful solitude, and passed away. Yet three years later, as the scholar attained academic fame, Du Liniang came back to life, transcending death to reunite with the scholar in a heavenly union.
The tale, though straightforward, held unparalleled charm for ladies of scholarly households. Its diction was elegant, refined—far removed from the vulgarity of works like *The West Chamber*—making it suitable for those who seldom ventured beyond the gates of their home.
The mistress prepared much, and Xiuhe likewise made careful preparations. Yet, he did not come.
Walking upon the cobblestone path, Lin Wanxiao, dressed delicately and radiantly, kept her eyes downcast. From the lightness of her steps, Xiuhe discerned an indescribable sense of loss. Her heart ached deeply for her mistress.
Reaching a pavilion, the noise of the gathering had faded into the distance. Lin Wanxiao, tired from walking, sat upon a chair, gazing far off into the distance, a posture reminiscent of Du Liniang awaiting the scholar’s arrival.
Concerned, Xiuhe softly suggested, "Mistress, why don’t we write some poetry too?"
Lin Wanxiao responded with a half-smile, shaking her head.
Xiuhe knew her mistress could compose poetry with ease. Even before her marriage, her verses had earned her father’s praises for their delicate phrasing and graceful elegance, standing apart from others. Yet since her widowhood, Lin Wanxiao had left her pen untouched for a long time.
Lowering her head, Lin Wanxiao drew from her bosom a sachet embroidered with characters rather than flowers on a blue background—a token meant for a man. She ran her fingers over it for some time before murmuring in a voice of despair, "He didn’t come."
Hastily, Xiuhe tried to console her, blurting, "It’s entirely his fault. He’s untrustworthy!"
Hearing her maid’s impetuous remark, Lin Wanxiao laughed faintly and shook her head. "But he isn’t obligated to come."
Xiuhe was momentarily speechless. She had always done her utmost for Lin Wanxiao, and this time was no exception. She was clueless about the details but knew her mistress seemed somewhat connected to that household head. Witnessing Lin Wanxiao’s longing for him, cherishing him in her heart, Xiuhe couldn’t help but find fault with the man.
Lin Wanxiao lifted her gaze to look far in the distance, her eyes betraying an unhidden sense of loss. Suddenly, she spoke aloud:
"If I had been gentler in tone back then, would he have come?"
Before Xiuhe could answer, Lin Wanxiao shook her head with resignation. "He ceased thinking of me long ago..."
Such hopeless words escaped her lips without realization—spoken by someone who had been worn down by the desolation of widowhood. Her voice carried a bitterness unfathomable to others.
Xiuhe heard it clearly. Tears trickled down despite herself.
"Why are you crying? Don’t cry, don’t cry!" Lin Wanxiao, noticing her tears, regained her composure and gently called to her.
After so much time spent together, the young widow no longer regarded Xiuhe merely as a servant but as a sister. Mistress and maid shared both bed and meals, their bond transcending conventional roles.