Chap­ter X begins with Mr. Hard­ing return­ing home from his day bur­dened by a sense of deep unease. The accu­sa­tions in the pub­lic papers have shak­en him far more than he first expect­ed. Though no direct chal­lenge has yet arrived at his door, the weight of the judg­ment implied in every print­ed word has made him rest­less. His music, once a source of peace, brings lit­tle com­fort as he touch­es the strings with­out feel­ing. Eleanor’s pres­ence, always sooth­ing, now reminds him that his rep­u­ta­tion affects more than just him­self. He feels haunt­ed by the fear that his silence may be mis­tak­en for guilt or, worse, for greed. And with each pass­ing hour, the idea of stay­ing on as war­den grows hard­er to jus­ti­fy. While the archdea­con urges restraint and strat­e­gy, Hard­ing finds him­self imag­in­ing a life of qui­et retreat, free from both pub­lic scorn and moral com­pro­mise.

That evening, the shad­ows around Mr. Hard­ing seem to deep­en as his con­science grows loud­er. He avoids Eleanor’s ques­tion­ing gaze and declines his usu­al music prac­tice. The cel­lo, stand­ing silent in the cor­ner, feels more like a mon­u­ment to who he was than a com­pan­ion for who he is becom­ing. Out­side, Barch­ester con­tin­ues its slow rhythm, but Hard­ing feels out of step, as if the world has moved on while he remains stuck. He attempts to find relief in the scrip­ture but even that offers only momen­tary still­ness. When Bunce arrives, speak­ing kind­ly but ask­ing sub­tle ques­tions, it becomes clear that even the bedes­men now feel ten­sion in the air. Mr. Hard­ing answers as best he can, but the truth press­es in around him. He knows that his silence can­not last much longer.

Eleanor, unwill­ing to remain in the dark, gen­tly con­fronts her father lat­er that night. Her con­cern is not veiled; her ques­tions are sin­cere but respect­ful. Mr. Hard­ing, reluc­tant but exhaust­ed, begins to reveal what has weighed on him so heav­i­ly. He speaks of the arti­cle in The Jupiter, the doubts it plant­ed, and the truth he’s been forced to face—that his posi­tion, though legal, may be moral­ly flawed. Eleanor lis­tens intent­ly, her eyes fixed not on the issue but on the man she loves. When he speaks of resign­ing, of leav­ing Barch­ester alto­geth­er, she does not inter­rupt. She under­stands the long­ing for peace, even if she dreads what their life would become with­out the hos­pi­tal, the music, the com­mu­ni­ty they’ve known.

Mr. Hard­ing con­fess­es that the prospect of res­ig­na­tion feels both like defeat and relief. It would mean walk­ing away from his lega­cy, but it would also mean step­ping away from the false pedestal that now feels unde­served. He shares with Eleanor a dream of retreat­ing to a small parish, where he could live mod­est­ly and escape the gaze of the pub­lic. She is moved, not only by the vision but by the courage it would take to make it real. They sit in silence after­ward, not because there is noth­ing more to say, but because some truths don’t need repeat­ing. Eleanor sees now the toll that silence and soli­tude have tak­en on her father. And Mr. Hard­ing, hav­ing voiced his bur­den, feels the first qui­et stir­rings of pos­si­bil­i­ty.

The chap­ter reflects not only a turn­ing point for Mr. Hard­ing, but a broad­er com­men­tary on the val­ues of Vic­to­ri­an soci­ety. The idea that a man can be both inno­cent and bur­dened by guilt is at the heart of Harding’s strug­gle. His pain stems not from what he has done, but from what he may rep­re­sent. The pres­sures from the church and the press, com­bined with his own sense of jus­tice, have formed a moral storm that no title or posi­tion can pro­tect him from. Trol­lope uses this inner bat­tle to ask a larg­er ques­tion: what defines a man’s worth—his sta­tus, or his abil­i­ty to step away from it? Mr. Hard­ing has not yet cho­sen his course, but in voic­ing the dilem­ma, he has begun the jour­ney toward res­o­lu­tion.