“The young gentlewoman must be most carefully watched. It would be expedient to have non compos mentis proven. That gives her guardians the very necessary power to have her cared for and restrained in some safe place.”
He was merely advising what he knew Stephen Gore desired in the matter of advice. There was sufficient on which to swear that the girl’s mental state was not healthy. Young gentlewomen who fired pistols and made wild accusations against old and honorable friends could scarcely be regarded as either sane or safe.
“Then you advise us to apply for powers of custody and restraint.”
“Assuredly, my lord, for the patient’s sake. She cannot be trusted not to turn against herself. I would suggest that you send her into the country and put her in charge of some capable relative—some sensible maiden aunt, let us say.” And his mouth curved with huge self-satisfaction.
“You prefer the country?”
“Far away from all distractions and all cares. Perfect rest, and a convent life. Then I may hope that God’s grace will heal her.” And he rose with a bow to my lady.
Stephen Gore touched him on the shoulder.
“Supposing that one of those violent fits should occur? A dose of soothing physic, eh?”
“Certainly, my lord, certainly. I will have it compounded and despatched to you without delay.”
That same afternoon Stephen Gore drove out in his two-horse coach, and called on no less a person than Sir Heneage Finch, the Keeper of the Great Seal. My lord and the chancellor happened to be well disposed toward each other for the moment, and Stephen Gore approached him as a friend with an air of grief and of concern. He spoke most movingly about “the child.” It was a sad affair, and might have been far sadder but for the mercy of God. Dr. Hemstruther had seen Mistress Barbara Purcell that morning, and given it as his opinion that she was of unsound mind. He had advised immediate seclusion and restraint, warning them that unless she was watched and guarded she might do some damage to herself.