Summarize the following text to main points and sub-points and make detailed explain for them:

as if to assure 
himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the sense 
that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily exertion, which 
somehow and at some time he should be able to dress up and magnify to 
the admiration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young 
gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a mode of 
locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective to a 
too bewildering dreamy sense of unwontedness in his position; and 
Dunstan, as he went along through the gathering mist, was always 
rapping his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey's whip, which he had 
chosen to take without leave because it had a gold handle; of course no 
one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name Godfrey Cass was 
cut in deep letters on that gold handle—they could only see that it was a 
very handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear that he might meet 
some acquaintance in whose eyes he would cut a pitiable figure, for mist 
is no screen when people get close to each other; but when he at last 
found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without having met a 
soul, he silently remarked that that was part of his usual good luck. But 
now the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than 
he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable to slip—hid 
everything, so that he had to guide his steps by dragging his whip along 
the low bushes in advance of the hedgerow. He must soon, he thought, 
be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits: he should find it out by the 
break in the hedgerow. He found it out, however, by another 
circumstance which he had not expected—namely, by certain gleams of 
light, which he presently guessed to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. 
That cottage and the money hidden within it had been in his mind 
continually during his walk, and he had been imagining ways of cajoling 
and tempting the weaver to part with the immediate possession of his 
money for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be 
a little frightening added to the cajolery, for his own arithmetical 
convictions were not clear enough to afford him any forcible 
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demonstration as to the advantages of interest; and as for security, he 
regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by making him believe 
that he would be paid. Altogether, the operation on the miser's mind was 
a task that Godfrey would be sure to hand over to his more daring and 
cunning brother: Dunstan had made up his mind to that; and by the time 
he saw the light gleaming through the chinks of Marner's shutters, the 
idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so familiar to him, that it 
occurred to him as quite a natural thing to make the acquaintance 
forthwith. There might be several conveniences attending this course: 
the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling 
his way. He was still nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and the 
lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into 
rain. He turned up the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss 
the right way, since he was not certain whether the light were in front or 
on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground before him cautiously 
with his whip-handle, and at last arrived safely at the door. He knocked 
loudly, rather enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be frightened at 
the sudden noise. He heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the 
cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a light? 
That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked still more 
loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers through the 
latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and 
down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, to his surprise, at 
this double motion the door opened, and he found himself in front of a 
bright fire which lit up every corner of the cottage—the bed, the loom, 
the three chairs, and the table—and showed him that Marner was not 
there. 
Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the 
bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it at 
once. There was something in front of the fire, too, that would have been 
inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage of cooking. It 
was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a string 
passed through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive 
housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had been hung at the 
farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently to prevent the roasting from 
proceeding too rapidly during the owner's absence. The old staring 
simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought Dunstan. People 
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had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on purpose to check his 
appetite. But where could he be at this time, and on such an evening, 
leaving his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door unfastened? 
Dunstan's own recent difficulty in making his way suggested to him that 
the weaver had perhaps gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for 
some such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. That was an 
interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying consequences of entire novelty. If 
the weaver was dead, who had a right to his money? Who would know 
where his money was hidden? Who would know that anybody had come 
to take it away? He went no farther into the subtleties of evidence: the 
pressing question, "Where is the money?" now took such entire 
possession of him as to make him quite forget that the weaver's death 
was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an inference that 
flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the impression that the notion 
from which the inference started was purely problematic. And Dunstan's 
mind was as dull as the mind of a possible felon usually is. There were 
only three hiding-places where he had ever heard of cottagers' hoards 
being found: the thatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cottage 
had no thatch; and Dunstan's first act, after a train of thought made 
rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the bed; but while he 
did so, his eyes travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, distinct 
in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not 
everywhere; for there was one spot, and one only, which was quite 
covered with sand, and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had 
apparently been careful to spread it over a given space. It was near the 
treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, swept 
away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the thin end of the hook 
between the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he lifted up two 
bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was the object of his search; for 
what could there be but money in those two leathern bags? And, from 
their weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt round the 
hole, to be certain that it held no more; then hastily replaced the bricks, 
and spread the sand over them. Hardly more than five minutes had 
passed since he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a long 
while; and though he was without any distinct recognition of the 
possibility that Marner might be alive, and might re-enter the cottage at 
any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying hold on him, as he rose 
to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would hasten out into the 
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darkness, and then consider what he should do with the bags. He closed 
the door behind him immediately, that he might shut in the stream of 
light: a few steps would be enough to carry him beyond betrayal by the 
gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and 
darkness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it was awkward 
walking with both hands filled, so that it was as much as he could do to 
grasp his whip along with one of the bags. But when he had gone a yard 
or two, he might take his time. So he stepped forward into the darkness. 
 
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CHAPTER 5 
 
When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, Silas Marner was not 
more than a hundred yards away from it, plodding along from the village 
with a sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and with a horn 
lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his mind was at ease, free 
from the presentiment of change. The sense of security more frequently 
springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason it often 
subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have been 
expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during which a given event 
has not happened, is, in this logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason 
why the event should never happen, even when the lapse of time is 
precisely the added condition which makes the event imminent. A man 
will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty yea

Summary :