“Bring me that casket, sister,” said Agnes; “I will show her to you; yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among near relations.”
The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father’s papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. “Keep it,” said she, “I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do not remove the casket—there is another picture I would show.”
Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have withdrawn her. “Agnes is still disordered,” said she, “you observe how she wanders. In these moods she says anything, and does not scruple, as you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.”
Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the subject of it.
The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. “Here,” said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, “learn a lesson for your vanity, at least; look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance between what I was, and what I am.”
Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to fall—it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, who had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been suspected of having caused to be murdered.
In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between them, which no longer existed.
“Why do you look so sternly on me?” said Agnes, mistaking the nature of Emily’s emotion.
“I have seen this face before,” said Emily, at length; “was it really your resemblance?”
“You may well ask that question,” replied the nun—“but it was once esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. Sister!” added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—“Sister! beware of the first indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontrollable—they lead us we know not whither—they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had suspended—not annihilated—to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us—we gaze in astonishment, and horror—but the deed is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the health of the soul;—and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair—to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair—but these pangs were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge—but it was transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy they who have never been taught the art to govern them!”
“Alas! unhappy!” said the abbess, “and ill-informed of our holy religion!” Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. “This face is familiar to me,” said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.
“You are mistaken,” replied Agnes, “you certainly never saw that picture before.”
“No,” replied Emily, “but I have seen one extremely like it.” “Impossible,” said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.
“It was in the castle of Udolpho,” continued Emily, looking steadfastly at her.
“Of Udolpho!” exclaimed Laurentini, “of Udolpho in Italy!” “The same,” replied Emily.
“You know me then,” said Laurentini, “and you are the daughter of the Marchioness.” Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. “I am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,” said she; “and the lady you name is an utter stranger to me.”
“At least you believe so,” rejoined Laurentini.
Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.
“The family likeness, that you bear her,” said the nun. “The Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the time
