“Then do nothing,” said Conolly bluntly. “Or, if you want anything said to this gentleman, write to him yourself.”
“But I dont know his address, and my brother says I ought not to write to him. I dont think I ought, either; but I want him to be told something that may prevent a great deal of unhappiness. It seems so unfeeling to sit down quietly and say, ‘It is not my business to interfere,’ when the mischief might so easily be prevented.”
“I advise you to be very cautious, Miss Lind. Taking care of other people’s happiness is thankless and dangerous. You dont know your cousin’s address, you say?”
“No. I thought you did.”
Conolly shook his head. “Who does know it?” he said.
“My brother George does; but he refused to tell me. I shall not ask him again.”
“Of course not. I can find it out for you. But of what use will that be, since you think you ought not to write to him?”
“I assure you, Mr. Conolly, that if it only concerned myself, I would not hesitate to tell you the whole story, and ask your advice. I feel sure you would shew me what was right. But this is a matter which concerns other people only.”
“Then you have my advice without telling me. Dont meddle in it.”
“But—”