Chap­ter XX begins not with grandeur, but with a sin­gle ques­tion that cuts deep­er than intended—asked by a res­i­dent who once regard­ed Mr. Hard­ing with affec­tion, now reduced to con­cern only for mon­ey. The rev­er­ence and respect once felt are cloud­ed by uncer­tain­ty, reveal­ing how hard­ship and rumors have worn away trust. Mr. Harding’s reac­tion is word­less; his silence speaks of dis­ap­point­ment far greater than anger. That moment reflects the loss not only of a posi­tion but of a bond. The hos­pi­tal, once a place of shared warmth and care, has shift­ed into some­thing cold­er. The man’s grasp on the emp­ty glass mir­rors a com­mu­ni­ty left to chase com­pen­sa­tion instead of com­fort. With heavy steps, Mr. Hard­ing turns away—not in retreat from duty, but from a space where duty has been mis­un­der­stood. There is no fight left to offer, only sor­row to car­ry.

Bunce, the one friend who remains loy­al, fol­lows qui­et­ly, offer­ing a shoul­der rather than a solu­tion. Mr. Hard­ing, weary and heart­bro­ken, final­ly gives voice to what he has tried to bear alone. His grief is not for the role he leaves behind, but for the trans­for­ma­tion of hearts once dear to him. It is the betray­al by famil­iar­i­ty that stings the most. He remem­bers them as souls con­nect­ed by pur­pose, now dis­tanced by doubt and resent­ment. Though Bunce tries to con­sole him with prac­ti­cal reas­sur­ances, Mr. Hard­ing longs for some­thing simpler—joy with­out cyn­i­cism, kind­ness with­out sus­pi­cion. His hope is not to return to the past, but to its spir­it. That moment of con­fes­sion and sob­bing, so rare for a man of his gen­tle­ness, expos­es the full weight of his inner tur­moil. The church has not failed him, but the peo­ple with­in it have for­got­ten what it means to believe in more than gold.

When Bunce final­ly departs, Hard­ing is left alone, sur­round­ed not by ene­mies, but by silence. The famil­iar walls offer no com­fort now. Each echo is a reminder of the music that once filled the halls—not just notes from his cel­lo, but shared laugh­ter, shared pur­pose. His faith remains, but the clar­i­ty of that faith has been test­ed. The qui­et is no longer peace­ful; it is hol­low. What lingers is not bit­ter­ness, but qui­et dis­ap­point­ment. The cause he resigned for—the moral stand—feels dis­tant from those it was meant to pro­tect. Yet even in that dis­il­lu­sion­ment, Hard­ing does not turn to blame. He holds to his val­ues, not for reward, but because they are who he is. That strength of spir­it, ground­ed in humil­i­ty, is what allows his dig­ni­ty to remain intact, even as every­thing around him frac­tures.

Else­where in Barch­ester, reac­tions to Harding’s depar­ture vary. Some admire his con­vic­tion, while oth­ers call it weak­ness. The bish­op, his son-in-law, offers gen­tle sup­port but fails to grasp the full weight of Harding’s loss. His offers of new posts or finan­cial help, though well-inten­tioned, miss the point. Hard­ing did not leave to be rescued—he left because com­pro­mise was no longer pos­si­ble. Eleanor, ever faith­ful, refus­es to let her father face this alone. Her deci­sion to walk beside him, regard­less of com­fort or con­se­quence, is a qui­et act of strength. She under­stands what oth­ers do not: that this res­ig­na­tion was not a fall, but a moral ascent. Togeth­er, they car­ry a kind of truth too sub­tle for pub­lic recog­ni­tion, yet pow­er­ful in its qui­et per­sis­tence.

This chap­ter does not offer tri­umph or res­o­lu­tion. Instead, it set­tles like dusk—calm, reflec­tive, tinged with sad­ness. Harding’s exit is not just from a job, but from a role that shaped a part of his iden­ti­ty. Yet, he walks away with integri­ty intact, a rare achieve­ment in a world swayed by pol­i­tics and pow­er. The hos­pi­tal may replace him, the court may for­get him, but those who tru­ly knew him will remem­ber some­thing deep­er. Not the title of War­den, but the exam­ple of a man who chose peace over pride. This end­ing, restrained yet res­o­nant, com­pels the read­er to ask not what was gained, but what was pre­served. In a sto­ry about insti­tu­tions and reform, it is the human heart that mat­ters most.

Through Hard­ing, The War­den asks us to con­sid­er the cost of righteousness—not in vic­to­ry, but in grace. His sto­ry is not about chang­ing the sys­tem, but about remain­ing unchanged by it. This is not weakness—it is wis­dom. As debates rage on in Barch­ester, as new lead­ers take office and old griev­ances resur­face, the mem­o­ry of Mr. Harding’s qui­et strength will endure. His music, his kind­ness, and his sac­ri­fice become his lega­cy. And in that lega­cy, we find the moral com­pass of the tale—a com­pass not guid­ed by rules or ambi­tion, but by con­science.