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.