he weak and the vain and the selffish
[Transcriber's note: sic], through mud and mire, after her, and acting
all parts, from the modest rushlight to the gracious star, just as it
suits her. Clever little imp that she is! What exquisite tact she
shows!--what unflagging good humour!--what ready self-possession! Becky
never disappoints us; she never even makes us tremble. We know that her
answer will come exactly suiting her one particular object, and
frequently three or four more in prospect. What respect, too, she has
for those decencies which more virtuous, but more stupid humanity, often
disdains! What detection of all that is false and mean! What instinct
for all that is true and great! She is her master's true pupil in that:
she knows what is really divine as well as he, and bows before it. She
honours Dobbin in spite of his big feet; she respects her husband more
than ever she did before, perhaps for the first time, at the very moment
when he is stripping not only her jewels, but name, honour, and comfort
off her.

We are not so sure either whether we are justified in calling hers _"le
mauvais coeur."_ Becky does not pursue any one vindictively; she never
does gratuitous mischief. The fountain is more dry than poisoned. She is
even generous--when she can afford it. Witness that burst of plain
speaking in Dobbin's favour to the little dolt Amelia, for which we
forgive her many a sin. 'Tis true she wanted to get rid of her; but let
that pass. Becky was a thrifty dame, and liked to despatch two birds
with one stone. And she was honest, too, after a fashion. The part of
wife she acts at first as well, and better than most; but as for that of
mother, there she fails from the beginning. She knew that maternal love
was no business of hers--that a fine frontal development could give her
no help there--and puts so little spirit into her imitation that no one
could be taken in for a moment. She felt that that bill, of all others,
would be sure to be dishonoured, and it went against her conscience--we
mean her sense--to send it in.

In short, the only respect in which Becky's course gives us pain is when
it locks itself into that of another, and more genuine child of this
earth. No one can regret those being entangled in her nets whose vanity
and meanness of spirit alone led them into its meshes--such are rightly
served; but we do grudge her that real sacred thing called _love_, even
of a Rawdon Crawley, who has more of that