WSMTATMC C44

Chapter 44

Those few scholars were startled by Wang Ying’s sudden ferocity, stumbling back in fright. “Y-you—what do you mean to do?”

“What do I mean?” Wang Ying barked coldly, brandishing the bamboo pole. “You dare spread slander at another’s shopfront? Stirring quarrels on my doorstep—think I won’t smash your lying faces?”

“We are not spreading lies! If Chen Qingyan dares not come defend himself, why let a husband‑bride fight for him? What sort of man is that?”

“Piss and nonsense!” Wang Ying swung down, ready to strike.

Just then Qingyan emerged pale from the house. “Ah Ying—!”

“You—inside! This is not for you.”

“This trouble sprang because of me. Let me face it…”

But how could Wang allow it? His lover was too honest, unable to deny even under mortal peril. If he openly admitted to such slander, he might never wash the stain from his lifetime.

Then one voice from the crowd jeered aloud: “Tell us—was your county exam strike‑out truth? Were you barred for cheating?”

…

“…Yes.”

“There! You heard him! He admitted it with his own mouth!”

Like wildfire, word spread. Common folk love gossip; at once crowds clustered, rumbling:

“No wonder he left school, opening a mere private hall. He was banned from the exams for cheating!”

“And now such a man dares teach children? He’ll lead them all astray!”

Wang Ying rushed to explain, “It was entrapment! He was framed—cheat slips were planted in his brush basket. My husband never cheated!”

“Ha! And who would believe your excuse?”

“Indeed. Who gains from framing at a county exam? Worthless to risk such for him.”

“Just a feeble excuse for family ears.”

The scholars shouted in chorus. Wang Ying grew red, chest pounding with rage—not at words, but at the crushing force of rumor. He saw clearly now: these youths came purposely to poison Qingyan’s name. Surely it traced back to that Zhang licentiate again!

Had he known his depth of foulness, he would have ended him outright!

Another dared speak yet worse: “And you—confess. Out of envy of the other licentiate, did you not send men to break his leg?”

Qingyan’s lips quivered. His eyes glazed—visions of old humiliation mingled with present scorn. With a cry, he broke utterly.

To ancient men, honor and reputation (名节) were life itself. Once, being struck from the exams had plunged him to the brink of death. Now—with slander made a carnival of town, as if the whole county knew—surely this was to drive him to ruin once more.

Tears rimmed Wang Ying’s eyes. He pointed, voice like steel: “I know your faces. If my husband comes to harm, you and I will meet with no peace until death!”

Their hearts chilled; cowed by his fury, a few among them shrank into the crowd and fled.

The rest scattered soon after. Wang Ying clutched Qingyan’s arm, dragging him away through the murmuring market.

All the way, Qingyan spoke not a word. The proud youth now bowed, broken, head drooped, eyes empty of light.

Wang Ying burned inside, feeling as though a lump of wool clogged his chest—neither swallow nor expel. Almost suffocating.

Back home, he led him to the rear courtyard, not daring tell Madam Li. They could do little but weep—adding their worry would avail nothing.

“Qingyan, listen! Cast their words aside. They speak only filth. This is Zhang’s trick behind curtains. I’ll find him—punish him again if I must!”

But Qingyan only took his hand, shaking his head weakly.

Wang Ying’s nose stung. He choked, “Don’t be like this… seeing you hurts me more than anything.”

Yet Qingyan said nothing. In truth, what seized him was no silence of choice. In modern terms, it was trauma disorder—neurochemistry disarray, nerves over‑responding to terror and anxiety, choking his speech.

For three days, he remained mute. Physicians came and went, finding no remedy—declaring at last: it was a sickness of the heart. Only by his own release could he recover.

Even Madam Li, never subtle, saw her son’s strangeness.

Wang Ying, finding it impossible to conceal, at last recounted the market scene.

Madam Li blanched near faint, collapsing into Chen Rong’s arms.

“Sister—you cannot fall!” Chen Rong cried, holding her tight. “The children need you upright. If you fall—who will shield them?”

Breathing ragged, Madam Li revived, tears streaking. “My poor boy—fated for suffering…”

Even Chen Rong wept, grief crushing her heart. Such fine a youth, yet thrice now struck with such calamities—how cruel fate could be!

Through the Lantern Festival, he grew thin and wan. Wang Ying feared his old illness would return—that he might once more hover on death’s gate. So he resolved: better take him away to the country estate, let gossip die in town, and let him heal in quiet.

“What?” Madam Li gasped.

“I say—Qingyan cannot stay penned here. Better to retreat for some months. We’ll return when tongues have dulled. With him nursed in country air, he may come back restored.”

Chen Rong agreed: “Do so. The town brims with eyes and tongues. I was in market days ago—folk chattered already. Even at every stall.”

Madam Li sighed bitter: “So be it. Only—Ying’er I entrust him into your hands.”

“Do not worry, Mother. With me, he shall not fall.”

The day before leaving, Wang Ying went with Ershun to the Welcoming Guest Tavern.

But the man waiting was no thug—it was Zhang himself.

Zhang never imagined Chen’s husband would summon him. At first, he thought he misheard. Still, he came—believing in daylight safety: surely Wang dared not kill him public.

Face to face at last, Wang Ying spoke sharp: “The rumors in town—you set them loose.”

Zhang sneered, “Rumors? Which part false? He did cheat—it is truth. My leg—you had men break it, truth again. Every word true!”

Wang Ying ignored, instead coldly asking: “When Qingyan treated you as brother—why did you betray him? Why slip cheat‑slips into his brush?”

Zhang gave a hideous laugh, almost mad. “Hah! Hahaha! It is long since set. What use even if I admit? The deed is done!”

“Listen. Qingyan is merciful. But I am not. I tell you now—it was I who crippled your leg.”

The words froze him, laughter strangled. He had not imagined Wang would confess bluntly.

“I’ll report you! To the magistrate!”

“Go—see if lawmen credit you, or me?”

Fury broke him; he hurled a teacup. Wang side‑stepped it with ease and closed in, fists raining blow after blow till Zhang’s face was bloodied, nose and lips gushing.

Ershun feared for life and pulled him back. “Master, don’t kill—!”

But Wang pressed his boot on Zhang’s head, grinding it to the floor. “Hear me. I broke your left leg—next time, I’ll break your right. Spread one more word of Qingyan’s shame—and you’ll crawl forever.”

Zhang’s face bleached with fear. “You—you wouldn’t dare—”

“What would I not dare? To hire killing earns me but banishment three years. Were it not for sparing Qingyan’s heart, I’d have ended you already. You are not worth his sadness!”

The naked murder in his eyes made Zhang soil himself in terror—stench seeping across the floor. Loathing, Wang lifted his foot away.

Killing sullied little. Fear would serve as punishment. He wanted Zhang crippled in spirit as in limb—haunted daily, bearing consequence.

So they left home in mule‑cart, wheels grimed with thawing slush. Midwinter snow melted, ruts thick and muddy, carts mired again and again.

This time, besides the couple, only Chen Bo and Dunzi came along. Ershun was left to watch the shop.

Qingsong and Qingyun begged to join, but Wang said firmly: “You are grown now. The shop needs hands. With me gone, can you not share the burden?”

“We can, Sister‑in‑law! Rest easy—we will guard it!”

Aunt held his hand, eyes anxious: “Take care at the estate. Don’t fall sick from toil.”

“I know.”

Fortunate that Third Aunt remained behind—to Wang, that eased his mind. The estate was but a few hours’ ride—near enough to detach and revisit.

He lifted the cart curtain. Snow still lay on mountains. He imagined come thaw to build a retreat—beside the warm spring. There they might bathe in steaming pools and hide the miracle of winter greens.

The vegetable trade he would not end. Dunzi could haul produce back to town every three days.

“Remember our last visit? You were bitten by the little blossom snake. How you frightened me, thinking it a viper.”

Qingyan nodded faintly—no words forming.

Wang interlaced fingers with him. At the estate, may he mend swiftly.

After two hours, they reached Chen estate. The steward, Chen Xi, was already waiting, smiling, in the winter chill.

“Hya!” The cart halted. He stepped forward, hands rubbing. “Greetings, Master, Young Master!”

Wang Ying quickly opened the curtain. “Cold day—why wait outside?”

The steward smiled. “I heard you’d come—idle at home, I thought to stroll, and hoped to meet you.”

“Then let us return.”

“Right.”

Within the village, he led the cart straight to the house. Knowing Master came to heal, he kept it quiet, returning to his own place.

“This was prepared for Eldest’s wedding house. Yet unused. If Young Master and Husband do not mind, it is yours now.”

“Not at all.” Wang helped Qingyan alight.

The Chen ancestral halls in the village had long collapsed with disuse. This new house—three clay‑brick rooms and one side‑chamber, courtyard neat with stone.

Inside, the brazier warmed it bright.

The east chamber stood ready with new bed and cabinets (Wang recognized pieces borrowed from steward’s home). The center was kitchen; the west, with old bed, for servant.

“To think, you repaired all so swiftly. We’ll stay two months, until spring, then build properly.”

“Stay as long as you please!”

“Qingyan must heal. For now, see none disturb him. If matters arise, speak first to Chen Bo.”

“Yes, sir.”

He offered to send meals, but Wang declined, until finally he agreed his grandson would deliver.

When all left, Wang and Chen Bo unpacked. Much was stowed within the mysterious field, unseen.

Then, in the dim light of their new chamber, Wang wrapped arms around his withdrawn husband, whispering fiercely:

“Lad—you must hold fast. Don’t you wither away on me!”