to descend to earth by the perilous foot-board, the only pair of folding steps being reserved for Her Majesty’s saloon.  In the days of crinolines such moments were sometimes awkward; and it was occasionally necessary to summon Mr. Johnstone, the short and sturdy Manager of the Caledonian Railway, who, more than once, in a high gale and drenching rain with great difficulty “pushed up”—­as he himself described it—­some unlucky Lady Blanche or Lady Agatha into her compartment.  But Victoria cared for none of these things.  She was only intent upon regaining, with the utmost swiftness, her enchanted Castle, where every spot was charged with memories, where every memory was sacred, and where life was passed in an incessant and delightful round of absolutely trivial events.

And it was not only the place that she loved; she was equally attached to “the simple mountaineers,” from whom, she said, “she learnt many a lesson of resignation and faith.”  Smith and Grant and Ross and Thompson—­she was devoted to them all; but, beyond the rest, she was devoted to John Brown.  The Prince’s gillie had now become the Queen’s personal attendant—­a body servant from whom she was never parted, who accompanied her on her drives, waited on her during the day, and slept in a neighbouring chamber at night.  She liked his strength, his solidity, the sense he gave her of physical security; she even liked his rugged manners and his rough unaccommodating speech.  She allowed him to take liberties with her which would have been unthinkable from anybody else.  To bully the Queen, to order her about, to reprimand her—­who could dream of venturing upon such audacities?  And yet, when she received such treatment from John Brown, she positively seemed to enjoy it.  The eccentricity appeared to be extraordinary; but, after all, it is no uncommon thing for an autocratic dowager to allow some trusted indispensable servant to adopt towards her an attitude of authority which is jealously forbidden to relatives or friends:  the power of a dependent still remains, by a psychological sleight-of-hand, one’s own power, even when it is exercised over oneself.  When Victoria meekly obeyed the abrupt commands of her henchman to get off her pony or put on her shawl, was she not displaying, and in the highest degree, the force of her volition?  People might wonder; she could not help that; this was the manner in which it pleased her to act, and there was an end of it.  To have submitted her judgment to a son or a Minister might have seemed wiser or more natural; but if she had done so, she instinctively felt, she would indeed have lost her independence.  And yet upon somebody she longed to depend.  Her days were heavy with the long process of domination.  As she drove in silence over the moors she leaned back in the carriage, oppressed and weary; but what a relief—­John Brown was behind on the rumble, and his strong arm would be there for her to lean upon when she got out.