One day, so the story is told, Lord Westmorland decided to bring the matter to a crisis.  He had been dining with Mr Child, and, after the wine had circulated freely, he said, “Now, sir, that we have discussed business thoroughly, there is another matter on which I should be grateful for your opinion.”  “What’s that?” enquired the banker, beaming benevolently on his guest, as a man who has dined well and is at peace with the world.  “Well, sir, suppose you were deeply in love with a girl who returned your love, and that her father refused his consent.  What would you do?” “What should I do?” laughed the banker, “why, run away with her, of course, like many a better man has done!”

What more direct encouragement could an ardent lover want?  It is possible that the next morning the banker had completely forgotten the conversation, and his vinous approval of runaway matches; but, two days later, he was destined to have a rude awaking.  In the middle of the night he was aroused by the watchman to learn that his front door had been found open; and a little later the alarming discovery was made that his daughter had flown.  His suspicions fell at once on that “rascally young lord”; and they were confirmed when he found that the Earl, too, had disappeared, and that a chaise, with four galloping horses, had been seen dashing northwards as fast as whip and spur could drive them.

The banker was furious.  He raged and stormed as he ordered his servants to procure the fastest horses money could command; and with lavish promises of reward to the postboys he set out in hot pursuit of the fugitives.  Luckily they had no long start; and, with better horses, more frequent changes, and a heavier purse, he had little doubt that he would soon overtake them.  But the chase was sterner and longer than he had imagined.  Cupid lends wings to runaway lovers.  Fast as Mr Child’s sweating horses raced, they gained but little on the pursued.  Through the long night, the next day, and the following night the desperate race continued—­through sleeping villages and startled towns, over hill and moor, until the borderland grew near.  Then, between Penrith and Carlisle, the quarry was at last sighted.

Mr Child’s horses, urged to a final effort by the postboys, slowly but surely reduced the interval; and now inch by inch they draw abreast of the runaway chaise.  The moment of triumph has come.  Mr Child, with body half protruding from the chaise, calls loudly on the fugitives to halt, shaking his fist at the smiling face of the Earl, who with one hand waves a graceful adieu, with the other presents a pistol at Mr Child’s near leader.  A flash, a report, and the horse falls dead.  A few minutes later the Earl’s chaise is a distant dark speck in a cloud of dust, at which the baffled banker impotently shakes his fist.

Before the fallen horse could be removed and the chase resumed the runaways had got so long a start that they could laugh at further pursuit; and by the time Child’s chaise rattled impotently through the street of Gretna village, his daughter had been a Countess a good hour.