A Crown of Shame, Volume I by Florence Marryat

Mr and Mrs Courtney could not sufficiently express their satisfaction at receiving their daughter back again. Maraquita was their only child. She had never had a brother nor a sister. All their hopes were centred in her, and in their love they naturally exaggerated her beauty, and were blind to her faults. Her father positively idolised her, and her mother's affection, though rather languid and uneffusive, was none the less real. Had Mrs Courtney exercised a proper _surveillance_ over her daughter, Quita could never have suffered the misfortune she had just undergone; but it was not in her indolent Spanish nature to look after anything. She had had a suspicion of Maraquita's condition, but it was only a suspicion, although the old black nurse Jessica had known it for months past. But Jessica had suckled Maraquita from the moment of her birth, and attended on her every hour of the day and night since, and would have died sooner than have brought one word of blame on the head of her young mistress. She had not even let the girl know that she had guessed her terrible secret, and so Maraquita returned to her father's house with as proud a bearing as if she had done nothing to forfeit the esteem of her fellow-creatures, and quite ready to accept all the homage paid to her. She was carried straight from her palanquin to a room redolent of flowers, and laid upon a couch, whilst the household servants ran hither and thither, to bring her refreshment, or to do her service.

Old Jessica was weeping for joy at the foot of her couch to think she had got her young mistress safely back again, and Mr and Mrs Courtney were almost as effusive in their gratitude for their good fortune. Meanwhile Maraquita lay there, lovely and languid, pleased to see how much pleasure she gave them by her recovery, and without a blush of shame to remember how that recovery had been attained. Hers was a frivolous, unthinking nature -- easily scared by the approach of danger, but ready to forget everything that was not immediately before her. She was a very common type of our fallen humanity, intensely selfish, and only disturbed by the misfortunes that threatened herself. And now, she believed that she was safe. Her secret was known only to the Doctor, and he had promised her, for her father's sake, that it should never rise up against her. So she reclined there, smiling, with one white hand clasped in that of her father's, and a bunch of orange blossoms -- emblems of woman's purity -- with which Jessica had presented her, laid against her cheek.