The Enchanted Cottage

What is it, Harriet?

Laura just phoned.

They can't make it. Oliver has to work.

Ohh.

If it isn't too late,

they'll come out.

But she says you mustn't wait for them.

I think you should go ahead, John.

You can play it for them

some other time.

I guess so, yes.

Good people.

I'm afraid this performance

will be a little bit like Hamlet

without Hamlet.

Because I've just received a message

that Oliver and Laura may not be here.

Oliver has to work.

Ohh, what a shame!

He salacious to get the blueprints

of his new plane before

the board at least next week.

I daresay, the airplane industry

is a little more important than

listening to a musical composition.

Even mine.

So perhaps I better begin.

I suppose you could call this

the first public performance

of my new tone poem,

"The Enchanted Cottage."

It's too bad that Laura and Oliver can't

be here

because it's their story, really.

You're going to have

to let your imagination

supply the orchestral accompaniment.

No place has ever had could ever

have had a more enchanting legend.

Here it was.

All that remained of a great estate.

Built long ago by an English nobleman,

come to live out his life

on these New England shores.

The house had burned.

But it's plan was still marked

by the crumbling walls.

Overgrown now with moss and ivy.

Wild roses and forest violets.

Miraculously, one wing had been

saved from the flames.

It had been remodeled.

And the nobleman used to lend it

to young married couples

to live in as long as they wished.

But by the time I first came upon it,

this gracious tradition was abandoned

and almost totally forgotten.

The present-day owner, I had learned,

was a lone widow.

Mrs. Abigail Minnett,

who kept her distance and

made others keep theirs.

Being blind, I could

only see the cottage,

only with the inner eye of imagination.

And through the eyes

of my young nephew.

I had him walk me

to where I could stand.

To try to sense the rapture of the love.

The happiness

so many men and women have known there.

Those things mean music.

And as a composer,

I longed to capture that music.

But it continued to elude me.

It was not until that wintry

Sunday morning several years ago,

when Laura Pennington

first came to the cottage,

that I began to feel...

perhaps the meaning of this

strange enchantment would

reveal itself to me

somehow.

- Oh, hello, Danny.

- Hello, Laura.

I was just taking a walk.

And so I thought maybe

Well, nobody around here ever

gets to see her or anything.

So I came in to find out

myself about the witch.

What witch?

In there.

That's just Mrs. Minnett who lives

in there, Danny. And you know it.

I'm calling on her myself.

You don't think I'd go

calling on a witch, do you?

Well, everyone says that she is.

Well, I'm afraid you're just a couple

hundred years too late for witches.

I guess I'm a couple hundred years

too late for anything.

Well, I wouldn't worry about it.

I think something will turn up.

- You really think so?

- Mmm-hmm.

Taxi!

Here, Uncle John.

My Uncle John calls me Taxi.

So excuse me, will you?

I've gotta catch my fare.

Who were you talking to, Danny?

Oh. This is my Uncle John.

This is Miss. Pennington.

I'm John Hillgrove.

How do you do?

I hope that Danny hasn't been up to

anything heshouldn't have been up to.

Not a thing.

I'm staying in the village for a while

with Dr. Stanton, my brother-in-law.

And when Danny and I take a walk,

it's frequently a little confusing

as to who's responsible for whom.

Uncle John's a great piano player.

He plays the piano.

It would be nice, Danny,

with your enthusiasm,

if you were a paying audience.

Goodbye, Miss Pennington..

Nice to have met you.

Thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Hillgrove.

Your friend Miss Pennington

has a very pleasant voice.

Yeah, but there's this

you don't know, Uncle John.

She's terrible homely.

That's not nice, Danny.

Don't you always say to me

that I should tell the truth?

And doesn't Mom? It doesn't Pop?

You just can't please people.

There's a time and place,

even for the truth, Danny.

If you say so, Uncle John.

But she is homely.

'm Laura Pennington, Mrs. Minnett.

My landlady said you wanted to see me.

Come in.

You can take off your wraps

and lay them there.

I'll bring some tea.

How do you like your tea?

One lump, please. No milk.

I understand you're looking for a job?

Yes, I am.

I suppose I'm really looking for a home.

I need a young woman to help me.

Someone who doesn't cling

to the foolish belief

that this cottage is

What do you think of this cottage?

Why, it's it's

It's not haunted.

You know that, don't you?

It's not haunted.

Well, I'm sure when people say

haunted, they don't really mean it.

So you're not superstitious.

That's good.

You just came back to Eastwood

a few weeks ago, didn't you?

Early in November.

Things didn't work out

with your mother's cousin in Vermont.

There wasn't enough for her

and her family, let alone

Some men are meant to be wanderers.

Others, it's no good for them

to go looking for things.

How long since you've been away?

Seven years?

Nearly eight.

When my mother died,

there wasn't anybody left

here that I belonged to.

I thought when you went away,

you'd come back.

I hope here where I grew up,

I might find

Well, I, uh, really don't know

what I was I wanted find.

A place I belonged, I guess.

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