From Abigail Williams to Betty Parris

My Dearest Cousin Betty,

Have you been well? No, that is not how I wanted to begin this letter, but I do not know how. I do not even know what to say to you, my sweet little cousin. How have you been? I long to see you, but I fear to show my face again in Salem. I fear not the people, for you know most of those who knew of me are now dead. I fear God. I truly do. Do not think I am trying to fool you again. I have had fifty-two years to grow since I saw you last, Betty. Old age has made me shake my head with shame of my old self.
Betty, I am sure you are reading this with confusion in your heart. Please do not mistake my intentions; I do not wish to trick or harm you longer. Nay, I want only to see that you know, before I am dead, how truly and eternally sorry I am. There is nothing in this world that I could do to make up for the horrible things I have done, especially to you, Betty.
You, a blood relative, I threw aside and used as a pawn to keep my own body from the gibbet. You, I have smacked and scolded out of fear. You, who was only a child of ten, I forced into lying and taking lives, however indirectly. I am sorry for what I have done to you, Betty, and since I have grown up and become wise to the world, I have not lived a day without you in my mind.
I realise that I was wrong in so many ways that I disbelieve in God’s power to forgive me. I pray, Betty. I pray for myself. I pray for you. I pray for all of Salem. I pray for the recently deceased Elizabeth, who, under God’s protective wing, was kept alive through the witch hunt. My God, the terrible things I had done to that woman. An adultress! I blush at my reputation, or what was my reputation. I have prayed more in these last few years than I have in my entire life. To think I once laughed during prayer brings a scorching colour to my cheeks. How could that girl called Abigail Williams be the woman I call Abigail Williams?
I was seventeen, Betty. I did love John Proctor, and I still do. I have never met a man who has kept me so in love with him since John Proctor. I believed he loved me, too, and that Elizabeth’s death would have made us happy together. I did not think of her children, or the sadness her death would have brought the town of Salem. Please, do not believe me all bad. I am not, Betty, though I may have been once. I have changed. Allow your heart to believe that I have changed. If you do not believe in me, Betty, than it is all worthless. It would be as though I had never changed at all.
It is true, I was a whore on the streets of Boston. There, I knew many men, and each of them made me more and more ashamed of myself, although it was the only way I could live. I did not want to be a drunkard and beggar like Goody Good! I should have come home for you. I should have grown up. I was the closest thing to a mother that you had. For that, I am sorry.
My dear Betty, I am sorry, and I love you. It may be nothing coming from me, but that is all I can say to you. Take what you can from that, because those words are all I have to give you.

Your Cousin,

Abigail Williams