A "Sappho" and "Salome."
A "Sappho" in a grimy city she was called because her heart was touched by the strength of youth; a "Salome" because she planted a kiss on his dying lips, but whether she was victim or vampire, sinner or sinned against, was solely for the jury to say.
Cries of blackmail, of bribery, of frenzied jealousy, of shameless love and daring intrigue, rang around the courtroom for the long days of the trial, but for the jury it was only to look behind the locked door of the artist's studio and see whether the revolver with which Guerin was shot down was held by the woman or the young man; whether there was malice or accident or self-destruction, and what the motive for either might be.
The shot that sounded his death was the climax to an attachment—guilty or not, as the case might be—that began when Dora McDonald was a wonderfully beautiful and younger woman, the wife of a wealthy gambler, and the lady of a mansion, and Webster Guerin was a mere lad, just old enough to doff short trousers for manly attire.
Affection, money and attention were lavished on the young man by this woman. At banquet board and in the theater box they passed their hours together. Of this there was no dispute. The sole question was whether the woman gave way to the lure of a boy, or whether the boy was importuned by the woman; whether in after years that boy blackmailed that same woman, or whether she loved him to a distraction that brought the madness of jealousy and the revolver.
And what of the love attachment? the police wondered. But as they delved a little they unearthed strange and tender things, but nothing more strange than poems written by the woman and apparently dedicated to the youth.
The tragedy of a soul was bared when Assistant State's Attorney Day read to the jury poems of passion found in the reticule taken from Mrs. McDonald on her arrest.
The State regarded the declarations contained in the verse as disclosing a dual motive of murder and suicide, and introduced them as circumstantial evidence. One entitled "Mistakes" was written on the day of the Guerin love tragedy.
Here is the first one read:
Tragedy of a Soul in Poems of Passion by Dora McDonald.
Put the word "finish" down by my name:
I played for high stakes, but I lost the game;
I played for life, for honor and love:
Well, I am not the first mortal who has lost all.
I have made up my mind to care not a bit;
Let honor and love sink to the bottomless pit.
Pull down the curtains, bring in the lights,
Put from my memory horrible sights
Of treachery where there should have been love,
Of red blood where should have been whiteness of dove;
The past, the present and the future are done:
How different, O God! had it been had I won.
Written as Tragedy Approached.
We are drifting apart,
Though from no change of heart:
But we cannot agree,
And the end we can see,
So the bonds of our love we will sever;
And I wonder if we
Will, alas! too late see
That our happiness lay in each other.
For when soul finds its mate
It is often too late
To struggle and fight against conquering fate.
And what does it mean?
This parting, I ween;
I'll leave you, but, well.
Neither heaven nor hell
Will make me forget you.
Nor save you should I find
Another holds the place that was and is mine.
Poem Written on Date of the Guerin Tragedy.
This poem, entitled "Mistakes," is dated February 21, 1907. 11:20 a. m.:
Said he: "Where is my sin?
I'm only as men have ever been.
I'm not so bad, I'm not so good,
And I'd be as you'd have me if only I could.
But you are strong and good and brave.
Surely for me a road you can pave,
A road which shall be my happiness, my very soul save.
After all, it's for you and you only that I crave."
She waited a moment, then came her reply:
"To the old adage, that women are weak, you can give the lie.
Not only you, others as well,
All through life have the same tale to tell.
I didn't mean to do it—I didn't, I swear,
But you can forgive me; your loss I cannot bear.
Can I forgive you? Well, that's not so clear,
Though you certainly were to me very dear.
I think, after all, now that I am awake.
I think it was I who made the mistake.
I thought of you ever as a flower rare.
With whom other flowers could not even compare.
Alack and alas! I find, after all,
You are only a sunflower, of which there are many,
Who take all the elements have to give
And give nothing that creates or causes happiness to live."