The Veritas Conflict (39 page)

She pulled the pages off the printer and stuffed them and a few notebooks in her backpack. She disconnected her laptop from the printer and carefully slotted it into her pack as well.

“Um …” she looked around the room and grabbed her history textbook. “I’ll probably go to Widener for a few hours after the review session so I can get that history paper finished. Can I still borrow your notes for the day I missed?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sherry disengaged herself from Stefan and looked through the stacks of books on her desk. “Here you go. All the notes are dated, so you can find the right day pretty easily. Hope you can read my handwriting.”

“Thanks.” Claire shrugged into her jacket. “I probably won’t be back until pretty late. I’ll try not to wake you.”

“No biggie. I need to blow off steam from all those midterms, so I might be out late anyway. We’ll probably go over to Stefan’s suite for a while.”

As Claire headed for the door, she saw Stefan reach to pull Sherry back toward him. Claire hesitated and looked back over her shoulder. Sherry glanced up and Claire’s eyes bored into hers. Sherry hesitated for just a moment, then dropped her gaze.

Claire turned back toward the hallway, an odd pain in her chest. As the door to her suite closed behind her, she bowed her head for a moment, then headed down the stairs, her prayers fervent and no bounce in her step.

Two hours later, seated at her carrel in the A basement of Widener, Claire read through Sherry’s four pages of history notes for the day she had missed.

At the end of the fourth page, Sherry had drawn a double line and below the line, another set of notations continued in a different pen.
The next day’s notes, probably. I already have those
.

She quickly scanned through them to be sure, then suddenly jumped to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over backward. She picked up the notebook, still reading, and an unbelieving grin broke out on her face. Claire felt in her pockets for some loose change, eyes scanning the shadowed rows of books and shelves. She couldn’t wait to get to that meeting tomorrow.

Sherry pointed the remote at Stefan’s television, turning up the volume a notch, and moved back to where he was sitting on the floor by his bed. She scooted back between his outstretched legs and leaned against his chest.

“Is that better?” She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke.

“Much, much better.” He put his arms around her, pulling her tight against him.
“This way my hallmates won’t hear you when you holler for help.” He dropped his lips to her ear, nibbling. “Not that you would want to, of course.”

She giggled, tingles racing down her neck. He tugged at her shirt buttons, and for a while she enjoyed his ministrations.

After a while she took a deep breath, weakly batting at his hands. “Stop … stop.”

“Do you really want me to?”

Sherry didn’t respond. Her breathing was suddenly shallow.

He massaged her shoulders. “Well, well. Cat got your tongue? Or have you finally decided?”

“Stefan …”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her in his direction. She slowly rotated until she was facing him.

“Sher, it’s time to take our relationship to the next level.”

Sherry started to look down at the floor, and Stefan placed his hand gently under her chin, tipping her face up. He looked into her eyes. “You know that I love you. I want to be with you.” He ran his fingers along her cheek, her neck, her back…

She closed her eyes. His touch was feather soft. Her voice came out in a whisper. “I love you, too.”

“Then show me.”

Stefan got to his feet. He stood, looking down at her, and held out his hand. “Show me that you love me, too.” Longing filled her eyes, and his voice softened. “There’s nothing wrong with following your heart, Sher. You know you want to. Don’t keep yourself from what you’ve wanted for so long. Don’t keep yourself from me.”

He held out his hand again.

For an embattled moment every muscle of Sherry’s body, every quiver of emotion, cried out to satisfy this desperate longing, while her mind and spirit screamed a warning to flee.

Caliel strained at the dark wall, crying out to his wavering charge, trying to break through the barrier she had built. He could see the barbed claws hooked into the young woman, the terrible anticipation on the faces of his adversaries.

The words of his King, the dreadful sadness, rang in his head.

Her choice…

Caliel called out to her again as scenes of other times, other choices, other consequences, flew through his memory.

Her choice…

Her choice to keep herself for the holy covenant of marriage. Her choice to avoid
the consequence of such a sacred loss. Her choice to wait for the unmatched delight of God’s perfect gift.

Her choice!

Caliel watched Sherry reach up and let Stefan pull her to her feet. Stefan sat her gently on the bed. Her voice sounded feint through the dark barrier. “What if your roommates come in …? What if somebody knocks …?”

“Don’t worry. My suitemates are gone for hours. Nobody will know.”

Katoth leveled a triumphant glare at Caliel and spoke tauntingly, his words spilling over onto the young man’s lips.

“Nobody will know.”

And as Sherry made her choice, the demons crowded into the room, raucous and cheering as they watched. Obscene words and gestures filled the air.

Caliel stood, a silent sentinel across the room, his head bowed in pain.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“S
O FAR I’VE FOUND AT LEAST THREE INSTANCES
of grants and endowments with Christian stipulations that aren’t being used as intended.”

Mansfield, Ian, and Claire sat at a large booth at the restaurant in Porter Square, again secure in the circumspect service of their favorite waitress—and even more secure, did they but know it, in the protection of unseen warriors.

Claire had notes and photocopies laid out, her laptop ready for further reference. Her hands trembled a little under the table, and she clasped them together, hoping her nervousness didn’t show. Although she tried to look and sound professional and matter-of-fact, she experienced a thrill as she watched her revered professor take notes on what she was saying.

“I … um … I’ve gone through enough of the documentation on each grant that I can be
fairly
sure about its history. But I’ve never done this kind of research before, so I can’t promise that I’ve seen everything about each one. Also, I’ve gone through a bunch of records to find these three grants, but there are still a lot more documents out there. There could be a lot more to find.” Her expression was hesitant. “Do you want me to tell you what research I’ve done so far, or give you the details on what I’ve found?”

Mansfield’s pen was poised over a legal-sized notepad. “Just cut to the chase for now. Tell us about the three examples. I don’t want a lot of details yet. Just the basics.”

“Okay.” Claire breathed deeply as she shuffled through several pages. “There were several grants given around the time of the Cleon Grindley letter. I don’t know whether all of them were in response to his plea or not, but several were explicitly Christian. As you asked, I started by looking up the names Rutherford and Crist, since he mentioned those in the letter.”

Claire passed a sheet of paper to Mansfield. “Here’s a summary of a grant from a Robert Angus Crist, a Boston resident, given eleven years after the letter was written. I’m assuming it’s the same Mr. Crist that Cleon Grindley referenced.”

“That’s probably safe to assume, for now.”

“Well, he left twenty thousand dollars—that must be three or four hundred thousand in today’s dollars—to be used for ’special lectures by a luminary of the day, a person of evident Christian character, on a topic that will edify and encourage the student body in their pursuit of the Christian faith.’ He also stipulated that ‘these lectures
must take place every few years, but never less than once every three years.’ There was some legalese in there about ‘in trust’ and ’on behalf of the estate,’ so I bet he left this money for Harvard in his will.” Claire’s voice grew tentative. “Is … is this the sort of information you want, Professor?”

“Yes,
yes
, go on.” Mansfield’s voice was sharp, and he didn’t look up as his pen scratched across the page. For a moment, Claire’s heart was in her throat. “I can’t believe this. This is great. Just great information you’ve found. Keep going.”

Claire breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she handed over the next paper. “This next one—

“Wait a minute. What was the dispensation of the Crist lectures?”

“The dispensation?”

“Yes, yes. You know—the outcome. What happened to the money? Were the lectures ever given?”

“Hold on.…” Claire pulled up a file on her laptop. “Okay. Apparently, the Crist lectures were given pretty regularly until just after World War II. But even before then they didn’t necessarily adhere to the standards Crist set out. For a while they seem to have gone every two or three years, but then that started to slip to every five or ten years, or even longer. There were a few here in the seventies, but none since. And the topics—well, as you can see on your paper, some of the recent topics hardly seem to meet the Christian criteria Mr. Crist specified.”

“Civil Rights and the Political Process.” Mansfield raised his eyebrows. “Ethics of the Scientific Academy?” He looked up from the notes, his lips curving. “Surely not your standard evangelistic message.”

“No.” Claire gestured at the other page before him. “Do you want to go on to grant number two?”

“Please.”

“Another one I found was given shortly after the Grindley letter, so I’m guessing it might be another of his father’s friends. The Rice family endowed a salary for a professor to teach a subject of Harvard’s choosing, but the professor had to be a Protestant Christian attending a Baptist, Presbyterian, or Congregationalist church. Isn’t that odd?”

The professor pursed his lips. “Not really. Those were some of the only denominations back then. The Rice family probably believed that being specific was the best way to ensure their wishes would be followed, and a truly Christian professor would be hired.” His voice slowed. “Unfortunately, today that level of specificity is probably the biggest roadblock to the use of that grant. So has this Baptist, Presbyterian, or Congregationalist professor ever been hired? Even back then?”

“Not that I can tell … but again, I’m not sure I’m finding everything there is to find in these records yet.”

“All right. Let’s go on to the next one. No, wait. Before you do that, what did you find out about the Grindley grants? Didn’t he also endow a professorship?”

“Yep.” Claire spoke from memory, not even consulting the laptop. “He endowed a salary for a Christian science professor, as well as those scholarships for young men ’of the highest Christian faith and character.’ He said that candidates for the science teaching position would be required to show evidence of strong Christian faith
and
to commit to teaching science from a Christian perspective. Perhaps that explains why his professorship grant was quietly dropped about fifteen years after his death.”

Mansfield stretched and shook his head. His forehead was creased. “Good grief. Well, let’s go onto the last one you’ve found.”

Claire pushed another sheet of paper in her professor’s direction. “I haven’t come across any more grants from the Grindley group, so to speak. Like I said, it’ll take a lot more time to go through all the records. But this third grant I found is really interesting. This money was given about twenty years earlier than the Grindley letter, so obviously it was unrelated. Apparently, the widow of a minister—a woman who was from a wealthy family—left a grant for scholarships for Christian seminary students at Harvard. Mrs. Donaldson detailed what kind of students the money could go to. It was set up as a trust that would pay Harvard a certain amount of money each year.

“Apparently, the money has been spent by the divinity school every single year, but never for the stated purpose. At least with some of these grants it looks like the money has just been sitting there, earning interest, being used neither for its intended Christian purpose nor any purpose at all. Or if it was used—like with the Crist lectures—there was sometimes an attempt to adhere to the conditions of the endowment. With the Donaldson scholarships, the divinity school has been spending the money year after year without even trying to look like they were adhering to the standards.”

Ian whistled. “Boy, that is crazy.” He glanced over at Mansfield, noting his professor’s somber expression. “Mansfield, what’s wrong? I would’ve thought you’d be glad for the credibility this will give our concerns.”

“Will it? I had really thought this could be the breakthrough.”

“Why can’t it be?”

“Well, look, there are a few things here that make our point that legitimate Christian stipulations have been abused—like the div school spending the Donaldson scholarship money for completely unrelated things. But frankly, some of these stipulations do us more harm than good because they look hopelessly outdated and illegitimate. I’m quite sure that someone is going to protest that Harvard would be foolish to follow these old-fashioned stipulations—saying that a professor must be Baptist, or assuming that all students are young men. These conditions might help make the
point that our religious point of view is old-fàshioned and out-of-touch, having no place in a modern university.”

Suddenly, Claire remembered what else she had brought to this meeting. A warmth settled in her belly, a feeling of certainty overtaking her.

“Professor, let me ask you a question.” Her voice was strangely strong. “Do you think anyone would think it foolish or out-of-touch for a university to spend millions of extra dollars to build a second building rather than expand an original one, simply because nearly a hundred years ago the building’s donor stipulated that ‘not a brick could change’? Do you think anyone would think it foolish that Harvard would place a fresh carnation at the empty bedside of a person long dead simply because a grant required it to?”