I had now, as I thought, discovered a clew to the history of Peter Rugg; and I determined, the next time my business called me to Boston, to make a further inquiry. Soon after, I was enabled to collect the following particulars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street, who has resided in Boston during the last twenty years. Her narration is this:
Just at twilight last summer a person stopped at the door of the late Mrs. Rugg. Mrs. Croft on coming to the door perceived a stranger, with a child by his side, in an old weather-beaten carriage, with a black horse. The stranger asked for Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs. Rugg had died at a good old age, more than twenty years before that time.
The stranger replied, “How can you deceive me so? Do ask Mrs. Rugg to step to the door.”
“Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these twenty years; no one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsy Croft.”
The stranger paused, looked up and down the street, and said, “Though the paint is rather faded, this looks like my house.”
“Yes,” said the child, “that is the stone before the door that I used to sit on to eat my bread and milk.”
“But,” said the stranger, “it seems to be on the wrong side of the street. Indeed, everything here seems to be misplaced. The streets are all changed, the people are all changed, the town seems changed, and what is strangest of all, Catherine Rugg has deserted her husband and child. Pray,” continued the stranger, “has John Foy come home from sea? He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman. If I could see him, he could give me some account of Mrs. Rugg.”
“Sir,” said Mrs. Croft, “I never heard of John Foy. Where did he live?”
“Just above here, in Orange-tree Lane.”
“There is no such place in this neighborhood.”