I remember one particular instance, after one of our accounting sessions, when Herbert sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. I, believing it to be a show of contentedness, mirrored my companion.
"Handel," He said wistfully, "I am discontented."
I quickly returned to my original position and inquired,
"Whatever for, Herbert?" My friend inhaled through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth before replying.
"I can't say I'm entirely sure. I can only say for sure that I am no longer content with life as it currently is." I nodded, knowingly.
"You'd like to advance your place. I know the feeling well. What we must do, I believe-"
"Not that, Handel! I just…" Herbert trailed off, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. Deliberately, my doleful companion rose to his feet, rotating to oppose a small coffer in the corner. This coffer, an old cigar box I believe, was my friend's chosen repository for anything he felt too valuable to be kept in the open. The box itself was kept on a small stand with a few loose scraps of paper and an old candle stub I had discarded early on and let lay for many of the years of my residency there. All of these things stayed so stagnant, in fact, that I wouldn't be surprised if the layer of dust that lay upon them on this occasion were the same that lay upon them for my first arrival in the Pocket's home.
This day was the day that that dust was disrupted, as my companion slowly lifted his coffer off the stand, forcing the grime to finally abdicate it's long time throne, scattering and settling across the room like a morning fog, I thought.
My search for the poetic in the everyday was cut short, however, when my friend and roommate let his box fall upon the table, and fell into his seat in a strangely disaffiliated way.
"Herbert," I inquired of him, "Herbert, what do you wish from your box there? Do you have something that will bring you back to normal sorts?" Herbert stoically refused to reply, instead continuing to stare at his special compartment.
Finally, (after what felt like an eternity to myself, due to mounting curiosity) he raised the top of the box straight off (it had hinges, but they seemed to have been reduced to decoration by rust and age) and gingerly reached inside. I strained my neck to see over his shoulder, believe his intention to be to keep his parcel a secret. Thankfully, my unfailing co-mate returned to the table, having retrieved a thing from his dusty old box. He set it down on the table, revealing it to be an embittered old envelope, which admittedly fell far short of my expectations.
"Handel," He said, eyes-to-envelope, "What, do you suppose, I have here?" I regarded the envelope with the air of a detective, thinking he might want me to discern what the thing was from something about its appearance. After a moment, I replied,
"I suppose, Herbert, that you have an envelope." He grinned widely at that, but did not take his gaze from his hands.
"Yes, I suppose you're right." he returned, chuckling, "I suppose you're right."
Herbert stood, then, and restored his envelope to its place in its box. It took the majority of my will-power not to delve into this strange behavior further, but I felt that this was a delicate matter, so I ignored it for the sake of my friend.
It wasn't until a few weeks later that this envelope made another appearance in my life.
I was returning, one late night, from a visit with Mr. Jaggers (the purpose of which was for him to check up on my affairs and for him to explain to me in what ways I was handling my money incorrectly), when I found Herbert sitting in the relative darkness of a single lit candle, staring sadly at his envelope.
"Herbert?" I asked, inquisitively, "What are you up to, chap?"
My friend shot to his feet as abruptly as if I had been some foul intruder, and not his faithful room-mate.
"Handel! When did-" He trailed off, seeing that I was looking at the letter that had fluttered to the ground. I was now very intent on finding out what it contained. Herbert sighed, picking it off the ground. My eyes followed him.
"Handel," said he, "do you know that I once had an infatuation?" I questioningly looked at him.
"An infatuation?" I asked, drawing nearer to him and settling in the chair opposite, "Do you mean Estella?"
He made no effort to respond. Instead, he tore open his old and withered parcel and separated it from its contents. With trembling fingers, he held it, and I saw that it was a short letter. I stared at it hungrily, knowing that I would soon see this oh-so-secretive of items in my comrade's possession. It was tinged, however, with apprehension at the thought that this letter might be one of love directed to my own beloved.
"Would you like to hear?" He asked in a small voice. I nodded ferociously. He began to read, but then faltered, and in faltering, decided to simply hand me the letter. It read thusly;
"We met today at Miss Havisham's birthday party house. I may have not have made a proper impression, what for the fighting. Truthfully, you were the most notably interesting of the people there.
Signed,
Herbert Pocket"
The formalness and briefness of the note surprised me. In fact, I couldn't help but imagine that it had been written in the same state of disquietude that he displayed now.
I looked from the letter to my ill-at-ease cohort, and back again. Then I laughed.
"Why, you must have written this to her the very day of our first meeting! Well, I must say I'm glad you never gave it to her, or the two of you would surely be wed by now!" I laughed again, but halted, realizing that my faithful confidant had water breaking the surface of his eyes. "Herbert old chap!" I yelped, rushing to his side to console him. "I didn't mean to… I never realized you still felt-"
"It wasn't for…" Once again, my friend stopped me, only to trail off, his tears now flowing freely.
"Herbert," said I, softly, "Why do you cry?" He sniffled pitifully, and looked up at me. I started, realizing only then how miserable he looked then, and had looked for the preceding few weeks. I thought back to his usual look of jovial good-naturedness. Now, looking down on his kindly face, I couldn't help but think of Joe, the moment he had realized I was leaving him behind.
But that was crazy. Always was I there for Herbert. He was my closest friend, compatriot, confidant, ally and well-wisher. In many ways, my feeling of him was almost like my feeling of Estella. I never did anything that could be considered abandonment in regards to him!
And yet, when I looked into his eyes, for that moment, I felt that we were somehow distanced. That my friend was something more, but that that something was not something I could know. Then the moment passed, and we both looked away.
Chuckling nervously, I handed Herbert his letter back, and rushed off to bed. The subject of the mysteriously depressing love note was never mentioned between us again.