“Truly have I,” returned the old woman; “and I have other things besides. But I must be paid for them.”
As she spoke she drew from her pocket a small, square, Dutch-shaped bottle.
“Give it me,” cried Ruth, snatching it from her. “I am sure the young lady will pay for it.”
“You are very kind,” said Viviana, faintly. “But I have no means of doing so.”
“I knew it,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I knew it. Give me back the flask, Ruth. She shall not taste a drop. Do you not hear, she has no money, wench? Give it me, I say.”
“Nay, mother, for pity's sake,” implored Ruth.
“Pity, forsooth!” exclaimed the old woman, derisively. “If I, and thy father, Jasper Ipgreve, had any such feeling, it would be high time for him to give up his post of jailer in the Tower of London. Pity for a poor prisoner! Thou a jailer's daughter, and talk so. I am ashamed of thee, wench. But I thought this was a rich Catholic heiress, and had powerful and wealthy friends.”
“So she is,” replied Ruth; “and though she may have no money with her now, she can command any amount she pleases. I heard Master Topcliffe tell young Nicholas Hardesty, the warder, so. She is the daughter of the late Sir William Radcliffe, of Ordsall Hall, in Lancashire, and sole heiress of his vast estates.”
“Is this so, sweet lady?” inquired the old woman, stepping towards the couch. “Are you truly Sir William Radcliffe's daughter?”
“I am,” replied Viviana. “But I have said I require nothing from you. Leave me.”