Stained Glass Read Online Free

occur to you that, if you were fortunate enough to do those things, time would pass and eventually no one would know or care that you had lived. Let alone that you were the creator of a beauty that would have become commonplace to them, because of familiarity. These windows, Hugh, are works of genius.”
    She rose once more, took his arm, and then began to discourse on the theme of the windows, those on the left commemorating great figures of the Old Testament, those on the right events of the New Testament. Those along the left featured prophetic scenes from the Old Covenant.
    â€œDo you see the thematic unity of those on the right?”
    All he had to do was wait. The seven windows depicted the Seven Dolors of the Blessed Virgin. The prophecy of Simeon, the flight into Egypt, the loss of the child Jesus in the temple at twelve, and then, as if fast forwarding, Mary encountering her son as he carried his cross to Golgotha, Mary at the foot of the cross ( Stabat Mater dolorosa, his grandmother fairly crooned the hymn), Jesus taken down from the cross—the Pietà—and finally the burial of Jesus. Grandma Jane’s eyes were moist as she recalled those great moments in Mary’s life that linked her indissolubly to her son.
    Before they left the church, Hugh’s grandmother led him to a small octagonal chapel entered from the apse. “We had this added after August died.”
    Inset in the floor was a pale marble slab on which was engraved AUGUST DEVERE.

    â€œIs he buried here?”
    She nodded. “So is your grandfather.”
    A family mausoleum as part of the parish church. Did Jane plan to be buried here herself?
    Â 
    Â 
    Now he was in her sitting room telling her of the newspaper story about the closing of St. Hilary’s. He might have been telling her that key articles of the Creed were being discarded. He tried to redirect the conversation he had started. “Tell me about Menotti.”
    The old woman stirred in her chair. “What do you mean?”
    â€œThe man who designed the stained glass windows.”
    â€œThey were a special gift to the church from the Devere family.”
    â€œGrandfather?”
    An impatient noise. “His father. August Devere.”
    â€œMy great-grandfather?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œSo you must remember the building of the church?”
    â€œYour great-grandfather, as I suppose we must call him, visited the building site every day. I accompanied him. The architect was not without merit, but you could find the twin of that church in half the towns of Illinois and Wisconsin. No, it was the windows that made it special.”
    â€œI suppose Menotti was Italian.”
    She dipped her head and looked at him over her glasses.
    â€œDid he live in Italy?”
    â€œHis studio was in Peoria.”
    â€œPeoria!”
    â€œAnd what is wrong with Peoria?”
    â€œI’ve never been there.”
    â€œYou should go.”
    â€œWhen did Menotti die?”

    â€œDie? Did I say he died? He is scarcely older than I am.”
    Hugh observed a moment of silence. How old would Jane Devere have been when St. Hilary’s was built? She must have been a young wife then, newly swept into the Devere family and acquiring an unrivaled pride in it.
    â€œIf I ever go to Peoria, I will look him up.”
    The old woman looked away, as if searching among the bric-a-brac in the room for some other subject. Hugh rose, leaned over his ancient relative, and pressed his lips to her cheek. When he straightened, he was surprised to see that her eyes were filled with tears. He bent to kiss her again, but she waved him away.
    â€œThat’s enough of that, young man.”

6
    After spending half an hour urging Father Dowling to make an appointment with Bishop Wilenski, Marie Murkin went out the kitchen door and headed for the church. It was her intention to spend at least an hour on her knees before the Blessed Sacrament, praying to