“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.