“So bad as that!” cried Mrs. Boffin. “And Betty Higden not to tell me of it sooner!”
“I think she might have been mistrustful, mum,” answered Sloppy, hesitating.
“Of what, for Heaven’s sake?”
“I think she might have been mistrustful, mum,” returned Sloppy with submission, “of standing in Our Johnny’s light. There’s so much trouble in illness, and so much expense, and she’s seen such a lot of its being objected to.”
“But she never can have thought,” said Mrs. Boffin, “that I would grudge the dear child anything?”
“No mum, but she might have thought (as a habit-like) of its standing in Johnny’s light, and might have tried to bring him through it unbeknownst.”
Sloppy knew his ground well. To conceal herself in sickness, like a lower animal; to creep out of sight and coil herself away and die; had become this woman’s instinct. To catch up in her arms the sick child who was dear to her, and hide it as if it were a criminal, and keep off all ministration but such as her own ignorant tenderness and patience could supply, had become this woman’s idea of maternal love, fidelity, and duty. The shameful accounts we read, every week in the Christian year, my lords and gentlemen and honourable boards, the infamous records of small official inhumanity, do not pass by the people as they pass by us. And hence these irrational, blind, and obstinate prejudices, so astonishing to our magnificence, and having no more reason in them—God save the Queen and Con‑found their politics—no, than smoke has in coming from fire!