V

by Wilkie Collins · 2026-04-26

“She’s escaped from my asylum!”

I can’t honestly say that the terrible implication of those words hit me like a sudden revelation. Some of the odd questions the woman in white had asked me after I foolishly promised to let her act freely had led me to think she was either naturally flighty or had recently experienced some traumatic shock that had unsettled her mind. But the idea of outright insanity, which we all associate with the very term “asylum,” had never crossed my mind in relation to her. At the time, I hadn’t seen anything in her words or actions that warranted such a conclusion. Even now, with the new perspective offered by the stranger’s words to the policeman, I still couldn’t find anything to justify that fear.

What had I done? Had I helped a victim of the most horrific false imprisonment escape, or had I unleashed an unfortunate soul into the vastness of London, someone whose actions it was my duty—and every man’s duty—to control with compassion? The thought made my stomach churn, and I felt a wave of self-reproach wash over me as I realized it was too late to change anything.

In my agitated state, I knew it was pointless to try to sleep when I finally returned to my chambers in Clement’s Inn. I had to leave for Cumberland in just a few hours. I sat down, attempting to sketch and then to read, but the woman in white kept intruding on my thoughts, blocking my pencil and my book. Had that poor creature come to harm? That was my first instinct, though I hesitated to confront it. Other thoughts followed, ones that were less painful to entertain. Where had she stopped the cab? What had happened to her now? Had she been tracked down and recaptured by the men in the chaise? Or was she still able to make her own choices, with both of us heading down our separate paths toward some unknown point in the future where we might meet again?

It was a relief when the time finally came to lock my door, to say goodbye to my London life, my students, and my friends, and to set off toward new interests and a fresh start. Even the usual chaos and confusion at the train station, which often left me exhausted, felt invigorating this time.

My travel instructions told me to go to Carlisle and then take a branch railway toward the coast. Unfortunately, our engine broke down between Lancaster and Carlisle, causing a delay that made me miss the branch train I was supposed to catch. I had to wait for several hours, and by the time a later train finally dropped me off at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was past ten o’clock. The night was so dark that I could barely find my way to the pony-chaise Mr. Fairlie had arranged for me.

The driver seemed annoyed by my late arrival, displaying that peculiar mix of respect and sulkiness typical of English servants. We drove off slowly through the darkness in complete silence. The roads were rough, and the thick night air made it even harder to cover the distance quickly. According to my watch, it was nearly an hour and a half after we left the station before I finally heard the distant sound of the sea and the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We passed through one gate before entering the drive and another before we finally stopped in front of the house.

A solemn man-servant, not in livery, greeted me and informed me that the family had gone to bed. He then led me into a large, airy room where my supper awaited me, looking rather lonely at one end of an expansive mahogany dining table.

I was too exhausted and downhearted to eat or drink much, especially with the solemn servant hovering over me as if a small dinner party had just arrived instead of just one solitary man. In fifteen minutes, I was ready to be shown to my bedroom. The solemn servant took me to a nicely furnished room, said, “Breakfast at nine o’clock, sir,” checked to make sure everything was in its place, and quietly left.

“What will I dream about tonight?” I wondered as I blew out the candle. “The woman in white? Or the unknown residents of this Cumberland mansion?” It was a strange feeling to be sleeping in a house, like a friend of the family, yet not knowing a single person in it, not even by sight.