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 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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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.
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