A new name — A Closer Reading

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In Category - Romantic Drama

Authors: Hill, Grace Livingston, 1865-1947 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2023 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Love stories; Christian fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Fugitives from justice -- Fiction; Traffic accidents -- Fiction; Anonyms and pseudonyms -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 87,012

Reading time 379 min

Text sections 29

This digital edition of A new name — A Closer Reading is described by source-level measurements including 87,012 words, 6 hr 19 min estimated reading time, and 29 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 16.5 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Love stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #70487

Grace Livingston Hill's 1925 novel follows Murray Van Rensselaer, a reckless driver, after a traffic accident forces him to assume a new identity. The narrative shifts from frantic hospital waiting rooms to quiet domestic scenes, tracking his internal struggle between old habits and the possibility of moral renewal.

Editorial Edition Score 4.9/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg70487

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ad been thinking about when those voices passed that point above the stairs? Oh! Yes! Her mother! Some one would have to tell her mother! She was a woman with a kind twinkle in her eyes. One would find it terrible to quench that twinkle in her eyes! He remembered how she had tied up his cut finger one day and given him a cooky. Those were happy days!--Ah! _There!_ There was that sound of an opening door again!--Voices!--Footsteps! Hark! They were coming! Yes,--they were coming! Rubber heels on marble treads! And now he was in a frenzy of fear.

Bessie, little blue-eyed Bessie with the gold hair all about her white face!--

The steps came on down the hall, and he held his breath in the shelter of a heavy tan-colored velvet portière. He must get himself in hand before he faced any one. If he only hadn’t left his flask in the car! Oh, but of course! The car was smashed up! What was he thinking about? But there would be other flasks! If only he could get out of this!

The nurse came on down the hall. He could see her reflection in the plate glass of the front door that was within his vision as he stood with his back toward the desk. She was going straight to the desk with a message!

The front door-knob rattled.

He glared impatiently at the blurred interruption to his vision of the nurse. A sallow man with a bandaged head was fumbling with the door-knob, and the white uniform of the nurse was no longer plain. He held his breath and listened:

“Well, is there any change?” asked the voice behind the roll-top desk, impassively.

“Yes, she’s dead!” answered the nurse.

“Well, you better go down to that man in the reception-room. He’s been pestering the life out of me. He thinks he’s the only one!--”

“I can’t!” said the nurse sharply. “I’ve got to call up the police station first. The doctor said--” She lowered her voice inaudibly. The man with the bandaged head had managed the door-knob at last.

The door swung wide, noiselessly, on its well-oiled hinges, letting in the bandaged man; and as he limped heavily in, a shadow slipped from the folds of the heavy curtain and passed behind him into the night.

In the big white marble house on the avenue that Murray Van Rensselaer called home the servants were lighting costly lamps and drawing silken shades. A little Pekingese pet came tipping out with the man to see what was the matter with the light over the front entrance, stood for a brief second glancing up and down haughtily, barked sharply at a passer-by, and retreated plumily into the dark of the entrance-hall with an air of ownership, clicking off to find his mistress. Sweet perfumes drifted out from shadowy rooms where masses of hothouse flowers glowed in costly jardinières, and a wood fire flickered softly over deep-toned rugs and fine old polished woods, reflected from illuminated covers of many rare books behind leaded panes of glass. It flickered and lighted the dreary face of the haughty master of the house as he sat in a deep chair and watched the flames, and seemed to be watching the burning out of his own life in bitter disappointment.

The great dining-room glittered with crystal and silver, and abounded in exquisite napery, hand-wrought, beautiful and fine as a spider’s web or a tracery of frost. The table was set for a large dinner, and a profusion of roses graced its centre.

Ancestral portraits looked down from the walls.

At one end of the room, in a screened balcony behind great fronds of mammoth ferns, musicians were preparing to play, arranging music, speaking in low tones.

The footfalls of the servants were inaudible as they came and went over the deep pile of ancient rugs.

A deep-throated chime from a tall old clock in the hall called out the hour, and a bell somewhere in the distance rang sharply, imperatively.

A maid came noiselessly down the stairs and paused beside the library door, tapping gently.

“Mr. Van Rensselaer, Mrs. Van Rensselaer would like to see you at once if you’re not busy.”

The wistful look in the master’s eyes changed at the summons into his habitual belligerence, and he rose with a sigh of impatience. He mounted the stairs like one going to a familiar stake.

Continue Reading →

The novel opens with Murray Van Rensselaer pacing a hospital reception room, a man unused to waiting. His impatience is rendered through sharp physical details: the fur-lined overcoat he still wears, the cold antiseptic smell, the clock that seems to tick in eons. Hill establishes his privileged background quickly—things usually came at his call—before the accident with Bessie Chapparelle upends his world. The prose mirrors his agitation, with short, exclamatory sentences and a focus on sensory overload: the white starched cap of the receptionist, the tessellated floor, the silver plate on the clock. This opening section is notable for its tight third-person perspective, limited almost entirely to Murray's thoughts and perceptions, a technique Hill maintains throughout the excerpts.

From Reckless Driver to Reluctant Fugitive

As the story progresses, the pace shifts dramatically. After deciding to disappear, Murray's thoughts become more deliberate. The prose slows when he considers the practicalities of disguise: not smoking, because that was a known habit. Hill lingers on his decision-making process, using longer sentences and a more reflective tone. The change in pace mirrors his internal transformation from impulsive action to cautious planning.

The Weight of a New Name

Hill's handling of time becomes more measured in these middle sections. The frantic ticking of the hospital clock gives way to the slower rhythms of daily life: breakfast, walks to the bank, evening dinners. Yet the underlying tension remains. Murray's observation that the pleasant ties that were binding him to Marlborough multiplied suggests a growing entrapment, not by external forces but by his own emerging conscience. The narrative voice here is less agitated, more introspective, allowing the reader to sense his gradual, reluctant transformation.

Recurring Motifs and Structural Patterns

Hill also uses structural repetition. Both the opening and later sections feature a character waiting—Murray in the hospital, then Murray in his room deciding whether to flee. This parallel emphasizes his changed circumstances. The narrative voice shifts accordingly: from the sharp, present-tense urgency of the hospital scene to the more reflective past-tense of the Marlborough chapters. These changes in pace and perspective are not arbitrary; they chart Murray's psychological journey from panic to a tentative, still-uncertain hope.

Readers should pay attention to how Hill modulates sentence length and internal monologue to signal Murray's emotional state. The early chapters' breathless, fragmented style gives way to a more measured cadence as he assumes his new identity. The recurring motifs—names, clocks, domestic details—are not merely decorative but structural, marking his progress from fugitive to potential participant in a community. The excerpts leave open whether this transformation will hold, but the narrative's careful attention to voice and pace suggests that the answer lies in the small, daily choices Murray makes.

There are moments when Murray, shedding his reckless old self for that borrowed name, reminded me of the quiet way I first understood Stella Rosevelt—not through dramatic turns, but the slow pace of a room becoming familiar. That particular strain between who we were and who we might yet become lingers between both narratives, gently, like afternoon light. Stella Rosevelt — Background and Themes holds that same ache, I think, half-hidden.