THE GIPSY QUEEN
By F. BRITTAIN
THE gipsy girl had belonged to a wealthy family and her relations were many ; and so, when she was buried, our
village church had seldom if ever seen a costlier funeral. First came the coffin, completely hidden in its hearse under a great mound of flowers, with more flowers packed all round it and still more flowers on top of the hearse. Next came a second hearse, packed full of flowers and nothing but flowers, and again with more flowers on the roof. After that twenty-two cars full of mourners, all dressed in black, all carrying flowers, and with more flowers on the floor between their feet. They went into church carrying as many of the flowers as they could handle, but they were quite unable to carry them all. The rest were taken direct from the cars to the graveside by the undertakers' men while the service was going on in church.
The usual inquisitive band of funeral-gazers who stood outside the church door to revel in human misery were quick to notice that in the whole of this great procession of flowers there was none of the usual wreaths and crosses. The flowers were, in fact, arranged in designs such as they had never seen before. There were floral pillows with white chickens' feathers peeping out between the blooms ; there were floral harps with strings of glittering wire ; there were floral gates, always in pairs ; and there were floral chairs of various sizes—some only big enough for dolls, others large enough for a child to sit on.
The funeral-gazers were much struck, too, by the behaviour of the dead girl's mother—the Gipsy Queen as they called her. Everyone knew that she had been deeply attached to her daughter ; and yet she did not shed a single tear, either in church or at the graveside, even though many of the mourners wept aloud. It was clear that she was too proud to cry, too fully aware of her position as chief mourner, too much alive to the importance of seeing that everything At her daughter's funeral was done properly ; and so, when the ,ceremony at the graveside was over and the other mourners had gone home, no one was surprised that the Gipsy Queen stayed behind to see the grave filled in and the flowers displayed all round it exactly as she wished. They covered many square yards of ground. When she had surveyed them for a minute or two with evident satis- faction she went home—but not for long.
In the evening, when almost the whole population of the village went by twos and threes to the churchyard to see the flowers of which they had heard so much, they were startled to find the Gipsy Queen standing by the grave to receive them. As dry-eyed as she had been at the funeral, she was obviously very pleased to see the visitors. Acting the part of a hostess very graciously, she explained the flowers in detail to all who came, and told them what they had cost. " Good evening, sir l Yes, it's very sad. Those feathers ? Oh, they're for angels' wings, you know. Those chairs ? They're vacant chairs. We miss her a lot. This little chair cost three pounds ; that big one cost four or five—I forget which. Good even- ing, lady ! Yes, it's. very sad. Those white feathers ? Yes, lady, they're for angels' wings. Those harps ? Every one of them has a broken string. You can see that, can't you, sir ? That big one cost ten pounds. Good evening, lady ! Those gates, did you say ? Yes, lovely, aren't they ? What do they mean ? Why, they're the gates of heaven. Just look at them, and you'll see that one of every pair stands ajar. That's to let her into heaven, you know. Yes, sir, they cost a lot of money. I think the flowers cost two hundred pounds in all. There were so many that we couldn't bring them all to the funeral. We had to leave a lot at home. Good evening, sir ! Yes, lady, all the harps have a broken string."
So she went on, to visitor after visitor, while the evening wort away. The sun sank lower and lower, but still the visitors came and still she went on explaining the feathers, the harps, the vacant chairs and the gates of heaven. Darkness began to fall, and the number of visitors dwindled, but the Gipsy Queen was unwearied. The lights were put on in the church, the organ sounded, and the voices of the choir were wafted through the open door ; but the Gipsy Queen went on unperturbed, and her exposition of the flowers was punctuated by snatches of the psalms for the twenty-seventh evening of the month: " Yes, it's very sad... ." " Then were we like unto them that dream. . . ." "I think it cost three pounds. . . " Then was our mouth filled with laughter. . . ." " Good evening, lady! . . ." "They that sow in tears. . . ." " That one cost five pounds. . . ." "For so he giveth his beloved sleep. . . ."
" Those are for the gates of heaven. . ." "Like the olive branches. . . ." "It stands ajar to let her go in. . . ." " Out of the deep. . . ." "You see the broken string, lady. . . ." " I look for the Lord. . . ." "No, that one didn't cost more than two pounds. . . ." "My soul fleeth. . . ." " Those are for angels' wings. . . ." " Lord, I am not high-minded. . . ." " Over two hundred pounds, I think. . . ." " 0 Israel, trust in the Lord. . . ." "You won't step on those gates of heaven now it's nearly dark, will you lady ? "
The singing ceased. The lights in the church went out, the doot was locked for the night, the sound of footsteps and voices died away, and the Gipsy Queen was left alone in the churchyard. She waited patiently. Before long the moon shone on the graves of the fourteenth-century Richard de Pouns, of the nameless fugitives from the Great Plague of London, of General Carpenter of the East India Company's army, and of the gipsy girl buried close beside him. Still she waited, but not another visitor came to see the flowers. Realising that no more would come, the Gipsy Queen sud- denly flung herself face downward among the angels' wings, the vacant chairs, the harps with broken strings and the sweet-smelling gates of heaven, and wept, and wept.
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